iss  Arm  si 

and  other- 

Circumstances 

\\\r 
Ify 

V 

John  Davidson 


MISS    ARMSTRONG'S 

And  Other  Circumstances 


MISS    ARMSTRONG'S 

And  Other  Circumstances 

BY 

JOHN   DAVIDSON 


NEW   YORK 
STONE   &   KIMBALL 

M  DCCC  XCVI 


COPYRIGHT,    1896,   BY 
STONE      AND      KIMBALL 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Miss  ARMSTRONG'S  CIRCUMSTANCES  .    .  i 

A  WOULD-BE  LONDONER 32 

SOME  POOR  FOLK 44 

AN  IDEAL  SHOEBLACK 71 

ALISON  HEPBURN'S  EXPLOIT     ....  80 

THE  MEMBER  FOR  GOTHAM 164 

TALKING  AGAINST  TIME 172 

BANDEROLE'S  ^ESTHETIC  BILL  ....  188 

AMONG  THE  ANARCHISTS 198 

THE  INTERREGNUM  IN  FAIRYLAND  212 


MISS  ARMSTRONG'S   CIRCUM- 
STANCES 

AFTER  all,  my  friends  have  been  mis- 
taken ;  my  experiences  are  not  nearly 
so  exciting  as  they  appeared  to  be  when  I 
saw  them  through  their  spectacles.  They 
insisted  that  I  had  only  to  write  down  an 
exact  chronicle  of  the  days  of  the  years  of 
my  life  to  be  the  author  of  a  record  as  inter- 
esting as  any  novel.  I  was  pretty  well  per- 
suaded of  the  truth  of  their  judgment  when 
I  began  to  write  my  history ;  but  I  had  not 
proceeded  far  when  doubts  began  to  spring 
up,  and  by  the  time  I  had  arrived  at  my 
seventh  chapter,  and  the  end  of  my  seven- 
teenth year,  I  was  so  tired  of  writing,  and  of 
my  subject,  that  I  threw  my  pen  in  the  fire, 
and  stowed  away  my  papers  in  an  old  band- 
box, out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind. 

I  have  read  somewhere  that  if  a  woman 
once  falls  in  love,  and  then  falls  out  of  it, 
i  i 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

she  has  no  peace  until  she  is  again  swim- 
ming for  life  in  a  high-sea  of  passion.  (I  had 
better  state  here  that  I  am  just  nineteen. 
The  English  master  used  to  object  to  my 
figures  of  speech;  but  I  am  writing  this 
entirely  for  my  own  satisfaction,  and  mean 
to  give  my  imagination  free  scope.)  It 
seems  to  me  that  literary  composition  is  like 
love.  When  one  has  begun  to  write  some- 
thing of  one's  own,  it  doesn't  matter  how 
disgusted  one  may  become,  one  returns  to 
the  ink-pot  like  a  drunkard  to  his  cups.  So, 
after  three  months,  I  unearthed  the  bandbox, 
and  read  over  my  seven  chapters.  There 
were  only  two  interesting  pages  in  the  whole 
manuscript,  and  those  were  the  two  last. 
All  the  early  incidents  in  my  life  which  my 
friends  thought  so  wonderful  were  of  no 
moment  to  me.  My  birth  in  Paris  during 
the  siege ;  the  death  of  my  father,  a  Scotch 
Socialist,  on  a  barricade  ;  my  French  mother's 
penniless  journey  to  London ;  our  life  as 
beggars ;  my  mother's  second  marriage  to  a 
philanthropic  City  man ;  my  running  away 
when  I  was  seven,  and  my  wanderings  for  a 
fortnight;  my  attempt  to  poison  my  baby- 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

brother  with  matches ;  my  attack  on  my  phil- 
anthropic step-papa  with  a  poker ;  my  exile 
to  a  suburban  boarding-school;  my  step- 
papa's  fraudulent  bankruptcy  and  disappear- 
ance, and  the  deaths  of  my  poor  mother  and 
her  little  boy  —  all  this  was  narrated  in  a 
dull,  frigid  manner,  quite  up  to  the  degree 
of  stupidity  that  would  have  registered  <  Ex- 
cellent '  on  Mr.  Standard,  the  English  master's 
meter.  (I  wonder  what  he  would  think  of 
that  metaphor  !)  A  great  deal,  doubtless, 
might  be  made  out  of  my  early  life,  and 
when  I  am  older  I  may  be  able  to  embody 
it  in  some  readable  way ;  but  in  the  mean- 
time it  is  impossible  for  me  to  put  myself  in  the 
place  of  the  little  girl  I  was.  This  is  simply 
because  I  did  not  begin  to  be  self-conscious 
until  I  was  seventeen.  When  my  life  ceases 
to  be  as  full  as  it  has  been  of  late,  I  shall 
doubtless  be  able  to  study  myself  from  the 
beginning.  At  present  I  am  driven  as  if  by 
some  power  outside  me  to  write  an  account  of 
a  certain  day  in  my  life.  I  don't  like  writing, 
so  I  am  going  to  make  it  as  short  as  I  can. 
First  of  all,  I  shall  quote  the  last  two  pages 
of  my  manuscript  : 

3 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

'  It  was  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  when  I 
found  myself  in  a  position  of  dependence  in 
the  house  of  a  relative  of  my  stepfather's, 
that  I  first  began  to  look  upon  myself  as  a 
circumstance.  Doubtless  this  notion  arose 
from  something  I  had  read,  but  I  have  never 
been  able  to  trace  its  origin.  One  night 
while  I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  room,  the 
thought  came  to  me  that  the  whole  world 
was  an  experiment.  Here  was  I,  a  tall, 
handsome  girl,  already  a  woman  in  appear- 
ance, thrust  by  circumstances  into  a  family 
that  would  have  preferred  to  do  without  me. 
Were  circumstances  playing  off  a  serio-comic 
practical  joke  on  this  family  and  me?  But 
my  fancy  took  a  higher  flight.  I  saw  cir- 
cumstances in  the  shape  of  the  professor  of 
chemistry  and  his  lean  assistant  shaking  up 
folk  and  families,  and  towns  and  countries, 
in  bottles  and  beakers;  braying  stubborn 
folks  like  me  in  mortars :  precipitating,  cal- 
cining, sifting,  subliming,  filtering  powers 
and  principalities,  companies  and  corpora- 
tions; conducting  a  stupendous  qualitative 
analysis  of  the  world.  I  thought,  "  Since 
it 's  all  an  experiment,  how  can  we  help  it  if 
4 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

we're  miserable?"  "By  joining  the  ex- 
perimenters," came  the  answer  pat.  This 
warmed  me,  and  I  began  to  pace  my  room. 
"  I  will  be  an  experimenter,"  I  said  to  my- 
self. "  I  will  be  a  circumstance,  and  cause 
things."  I  marched  up  and  down  for  awhile, 
thinking  how  much  greater  I  was  than  the 
Prime  Minister,  who  had  simply  been  tossed 
up  there  by  circumstances;  he  was  only  a 
bit  of  the  experiment,  but  I  was  going  to  be 
a  circumstance.  Suddenly  I  saw  that  my 
metaphor  had  misled  me.  Circumstances, 
I  perceived,  are  the  experiment ;  everybody 
and  everything  is  a  circumstance.  "  You 
donkey!"  I  said  to  myself.  "You  don't 
need  to  become  a  circumstance ;  you  are 
one."  Then  I  marched  up  and  down  the 
room  again,  feeling  very  miserable  indeed, 
till  I  hit  upon  an  epigram.  "  People  are 
divided  into  two  classes,"  I  said  triumph- 
antly, as  I  prepared  for  bed :  "  those  who 
are  circumstances  without  knowing  it,  and 
those  who  are  conscious  of  the  fact."  I  lay 
awake  for  long,  overpowered  by  the  tre- 
mendous responsibility  which  this  discovery 
had  laid  on  me.  The  load  was  lifted,  and  I 
5 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

fell  asleep  the  moment  I  resolved  not  to 
submit  tamely  like  a  solution  or  a  salt,  which 
is  boiled  with  this,  and  burned  with  that,  but 
to  have  a  hand  in  my  own  experiment.' 

Two  remarks  I  must  make  with  regard  to 
this  paragraph.  The  first  is  about  myself. 
I  say  that  I  was  '  a  tall,  handsome  girl,  al- 
ready a  woman  in  appearance.'  A  romantic 
statement :  the  simple  truth  is  that  I  was  big, 
and  rather  stout,  with  a  lot  of  brown,  curly 
hair,  pink  cheeks,  gray  eyes,  and  generally 
pleasant  to  look  at  —  at  least,  I  know  I  liked 
to  look  at  myself.  The  second  remark  is 
about  the  chemists  who  taught  in  the  school 
where  I  was  —  done  something  to,  not  edu- 
cated. I  had,  and  have,  no  ill  will  to  these 
men ;  it  was  simply  impossible  that  I  could 
help  thinking  of  them  in  the  connection. 
The  only  one  of  my  teachers  whom  I  dis- 
liked, and  of  whom  I  still  cherish  hard 
thoughts,  is  Mr.  Standard,  who  condemned 
my  compositions,  and  objected  strongly  to 
my  metaphors. 

Well,  on  the  morning  after  my  great  dis- 
covery, while  I  was  engaged  in  a  large  half- 
furnished  room  teaching  the  three  little  boys 
6 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

of  my  stepfather's  relative,  a  loud  knock 
came  to  the  door,  and  was  followed  imme- 
diately by  the  entrance  of  William  Somers, 
the  eldest  son.  There  had  come  between 
him  and  the  oldest  of  my  charges  three  chil- 
dren, but  they  were  dead.  I  was  much 
astonished  to  see  him,  because,  although  we 
were  on  the  frankest  terms,  we  seldom  met. 
My  astonishment  increased,  I  even  felt  in- 
dignant at  his  masterful  manner,  as  he  gave 
his  little  brothers  sixpence  each,  and  said  : 

'  Be  off  with  you  !  They  deserve  a  holi- 
day, don't  they,  Miss  Armstrong  ? ' 

The  three  little  scapegraces  needed  no 
second  bidding ;  they  were  half-way  down- 
stairs before  I  had  recovered  my  presence 
of  mind.  William  Somers  closed  the  door, 
and  came  up  straight  to  me  as  if  he  had 
been  sent  for  on  important  business.  I 
stared  at  him  blankly,  and  he  stood  dumb 
and  blushing  within  a  yard  of  me.  At  last 
he  said : 

'I  have  a  holiday.  Will  you  come  with 
me?' 

It  was  evidently  not  the  thing  he  had 
intended  to  say. 

7 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

'What  have  you  a  holiday  for?  '  I 
asked. 

'It's  a  Bank  Holiday,'  he  said. 

'  A  Bank  Holiday ! '  I  exclaimed  with 
scorn,  determined  to  pay  him  off  for  his  in- 
trusion. '  What  slaves  you  are,  you  and  the 
whole  of  this  toiling  London !  Your  very 
holidays  you  must  take  when  they  come. 
You  can't  do  anything  else." 

'What  do  you  mean?'  he  said,  crest- 
fallen. 

'Are  you  aware  that  you  are  a  circum- 
stance ?  '  I  asked  severely. 

I  deeply  resented  the  laugh,  quickly 
smothered  as  it  was,  with  which  he  greeted 
this  question.  I  see  now  that  it  must  have 
sounded  funny  to  him,  although  after  my 
meditation  of  the  previous  night  it  was  a 
natural  thing  for  me  to  say  in  all  sincerity. 

'I  see  that  you  have  never  realised  that 
you  are  a  circumstance,'  I  continued  coldly. 
'  The  best  thing  you  can  do  with  your  holi- 
day is  to  spend  it,  the  whole  of  it,  hour  by 
hour,  minute  by  minute,  in  the  intensest 
contemplation  possible  to  you  of  the  fact 
that  you  are  a  circumstance.' 
8 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

He  looked  at  my  eyes  for  fully  half  a 
minute,  until  I  was  forced  to  wink. 

'You  are  not  mad,'  he  said;  'and  you 
don't  seem  to  be  joking.  Still,  I  mean  to 
say  what  I  have  come  to  say.  Will  you  sit 
down  ? ' 

His  coolness  —  which  was,  however,  as- 
sumed —  and  his  determined  tone  aggra- 
vated me. 

'  No,'  I  said ;  '  I  will  not  sit  down.  I 
wish  you  to  understand  that  7  have  fully 
realised  that  /  am  a  circumstance,  and  I  am 
not  going  to  submit  except  to  such  other  cir- 
cumstances as  please  me.  You  are  a  cir- 
cumstance, and  don't  know  it.  And  what  a 
circumstance  !  Something  in  the  City  —  a 
broker's  clerk,  I  suppose.  You  needn't  tell 
me ;  I  don't  want  to  know.  The  prop  and 
stay  of  your  widowed  mother  and  your  three 
little  brothers  !  Did  it  never  strike  you  what  a 
disagreeable  circumstance  you  are  ?  A  good, 
respectable  young  man,  who  never  misspends 
a  penny.  The  very  thought  of  you  is  like 
the  taste  of  yarn.' 

Now,  I  didn't  mean  all  I  said;  I  was 
simply  angry  without  a  sufficient  reason,  as 
9 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

girls  and  older  people  will  sometimes  be. 
He  changed  colour  at  my  tirade,  and  held  up 
his  hand  deprecatingly ;  but  I  went  on. 

'  Don't  interrupt  me  ! '  I  cried.  *  And 
what  is  it  all  for,  all  your  toiling  and  moiling  ? 
To  feed  the  mouths  of  four  other  circum- 
stances, as  unconscious  of  what  they  are  as  if 
they  did  n't  exist.  That 's  all.  You  're  not 
causing  anything.  You  're  just  doing  exactly 
as  thousands  of  others  are  doing  —  exactly 
as  circumstances  will  do  with  you,  never 
realising  that,  in  all  regarding  yourself,  you 
are  the  main  circumstance.  An  explorer,  an 
artist,  a  poet,  even  a  prime  minister,  attempts 
to  cause  something  that  is  unnecessary,  and 
that  he  need  n't  do  except  of  his  own  motion 
— but  you !' 

'Miss  Armstrong,'  he  said  steadily,  as  I 
paused  for  breath,  'you  are  very  excited. 
Won't  you  sit  down?' 

'  No,'  I  almost  shouted.  '  Don't  you  see 
that  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  sub- 
mit !  I  won't  be  experimented  on  with 
impunity.  I  should  like  to  sit  down,  that 's 
true ;  but  I  refuse  to  yield  to  such  a  miser- 
able circumstance.  I  won't  be  experimented 
10 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

on  with  impunity,'  I  repeated,  liking  the 
sound  of  the  sentence,  and  thinking,  with 
what  I  suppose  I  must  call  feminine  incon- 
sistency, that  it  would  have  pleased  Mr. 
Standard. 

William  Somers  looked  very  much  an- 
noyed —  grieved,  even.  I  ought  to  say  that 
he  was  a  tall  man  of  twenty-three,  with  red- 
dish beard  and  hair,  and  hazel  eyes.  I  had  not 
paid  much  attention  to  men  up  to  that  time, 
and  did  not  know  how  handsome  William 
Somers  was.  The  trouble  in  his  face  did  put 
me  about;  but,  again,  if  paltry  circumstances 
were  not  to  be  combated,  how  was  I  to 
challenge  and  overcome  the  great  ones  which 
hemmed  me  in  on  all  sides  ? 

'I  see  some  meaning  in  what  you  say, 
Miss  Armstrong,'  he  said ;  « but  I  think  it  is 
stated  a  little  wildly.' 

I  felt  on  the  point  of  crying,  so  I  laughed. 
He  looked  at  me  inquiringly. 

'  Do  you  know,'  he  said,  '  I  never  heard 
your  age.  How  old  are  you  ? ' 

'  I  was  seventeen  two  months  ago.'  That 
staggered  him.  '  I  suppose  you  thought  I 
was  thirty  ?  ' 

ii 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

'  No ;  but  I  thought  you  were  twenty  until 
you  laughed  just  now,  and  then  I  saw  that 
you  must  be  younger.  How  precocious  you 
are  ! '  he  added. 

I  laughed  again,  and  he  saw  what  a  stupid 
remark  he  had  made. 

*  I  mean  —  your  figure  — '  he  stammered 
and  stuck. 

<  Mr.  Somers,'  I  said,  being  now  mistress 
of  the  situation,  '  I  will  not  go  with  you  for 
a  holiday ;  but  you  will  come  with  me,  and 
escort  me  in  my  first  assault  on  circum- 
stances. Observe  that  I  make  a  concession 
in  having  a  squire.  It  is  a  bad  omen.' 

'  Your  causing  a  bad  omen  is  just  another 
circumstance  for  you  to  overcome,'  he  said, 
yielding  to  my  humour. 

'  I  '11  be  ready  in  ten  minutes.  Will  you 
please  get  a  hansom  ?  '  I  said,  as  we  left  the 
room. 

He  had  not  succeeded  in  saying  what  he 
came  to  say. 

Mrs.  Somers,  a  very  bright,  quiet  little 
lady,  looked  askance  at  the  hansom,  but 
wished  us  a  pleasant  holiday  as  we  drove 
off. 

12 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

It  was  my  first  ride  in  a  hansom,  a  fact 
which  I  concealed  from  William  Somers  as 
long  as  I  could  —  about  one  minute,  not  any 
more. 

'  You  have  never  been  in  a  hansom  before,' 
he  said,  looking  at  me  in  a  quizzical  way. 

'  How  do  you  know? ' 

'  At  first  I  did  n't  know,  you  jumped  in  so 
smartly,  and  told  the  driver  where  to  go  with 
such  aplomb ;  but  then,  when  we  started,  in 
spite  of  yourself,  a  half-happy,  half- frightened 
look  shot  across  your  face,  you  sighed,  and 
sank  back,  and  embraced  yourself.' 

'  How  dare  you  ! '  I  said  hotly. 

My  feelings  had  never  been  examined  to 
my  face  before,  and  I  felt  outraged,  just  as 
I  did  once  when  I  was  posting  a  letter  at  a 
druggist's,  and  a  ruffian  laid  his  dirty  hand 
on  my  shoulder,  and  turned  me  round,  say- 
ing, '  By  Jove  !  a  strapper  and  a  beauty.' 

'  I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man,' 
said  William  Somers  priggishly. 

'  Don't  talk  to  me  any  more  just  now,'  I 
said. 

'  Very  well,'  he  replied ;  and,  leaning  his 
arms  on  the  door,  he  tilted  back  his  hat,  and 
'3 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

looked  with  unaffected  interest  at  everybody 
and  everything  we  passed. 

I  have  a  great  liking  for  mysteries,  and 
often  stop  people  who  begin  to  explain  things 
to  me,  because  I  really  don't  want  to  know. 
A  great  London  mystery  of  mine  is  that 
smooth,  elastic,  carpet-like  roadway  along 
which  our  hansom  glided  so  stealthily.  I 
admit  having  thought  about  its  composition, 
but  I  have  succeeded  in  overcoming  the  de- 
sire to  know  of  what  ;it  is  made.  It  seemed 
that  when  we  jolted  over  the  stones,  we  were 
being  wound  up  in  some  curious,  uncomfort- 
able sort  of  way ;  and  then,  when  we  reached 
a  stretch  of  that  London  turf,  I  felt  as  if  we 
had  been  discharged,  and  were  shooting 
along  through  space.  (I  'm  thinking  of  a 
crossbow,  Mr.  Standard.)  Really,  every- 
thing appeared  to  me  delightful  and  inter- 
esting. I  perceived  for  the  first  time  what  a 
picturesque  city  London  is  —  all  of  it  we  saw 
that  morning.  The  fantastic  stacks  of  chim- 
neys, like  hieroglyphics  wrought  in  the  air ; 
the  mellow,  antique  streets  of  dwelling- 
houses;  brick,  and  plaster,  and  paint; 
umber,  red,  and  dull  gold,  splashed  with 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

creeping  green;  the  squares,  and  grave- 
yards, and  crescents,  with  their  trees,  and 
sunflowers,  and  fountains  —  as  if  Nature 
were  elbowing  a  way  through  the  crowded 
buildings,  Mr.  Standard ;  and  the  unknown 
streets  of  shops  and  booths  where,  even  on 
a  Bank  Holiday,  the  butchers  and  the  fish- 
mongers cry  their  wares,  and  the  little 
children  tumble  about  among  mouldy  old 
furniture  on  the  pavements,  like  dirty  Cupids 
in  the  lumber-room  of  Olympus,  Mr.  Stand- 
ard ;  and  the  parks,  with  their  glades,  and 
avenues,  and  lakes,  where  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  Panza  lurk,  and  Robin  Hood  and 
Maid  Marian,  too,  Mr.  Standard,  if  you  had 
eyes  to  see ;  and  the  Thames  —  but  we 
did  n't  see  the  Thames  that  morning ;  and 
while  my  thoughts  were  still  revelling  in  the 
beauty  of  the  City,  we  stopped,  with  a  jerk 
that  dislocated  my  imagination,  at  the  house 
of  Herr  Herman  Neunzehn,  Wellpark  Ter- 
race, Bayswater.  When  I  got  out,  and  told 
the  driver  to  wait,  Mr.  Somers  sat  very  still 
and  attentive.  He  said  nothing  to  me,  and 
I  said  nothing  to  him ;  but  I  turned  on  the 
steps,  and  nodded  my  head  encouragingly. 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

Herr  Herman  had  been  my  music-master 
in  the  boarding-school,  and  had  always  had 
a  word  of  praise  for  my  efforts  both  in  play- 
ing and  composing.  He  was  dusting  his 
coat  with  his  gloves  preparatory  to  going 
out  when  I  entered  his  room,  but  he  received 
me  kindly  and  said  he  could  afford  a  few 
minutes. 

'  I  have  come  on  business/  I  said. 

'  Have  you  ? ' 

'Yes,  Mr.  Neunzehn.  I  wish  to  make  a 
start  in  life.' 

Mr.  Neunzehn's  little  bright  eyes  dashed 
for  a  moment  close  up  to  his  spectacles  like 
silver  fish  in  a  miniature  aquarium,  and  then 
became  dim  again  in  the  depths  as  he  pre- 
pared a  cigarette. 

'I  have  brought  with  me,'  I  said,  dis- 
playing a  roll  I  had  in  my  hand,  '  two  songs, 
the  words  and  music  both  by  myself.' 

Mr.  Neunzehn's  fish  darted  past  his  peb- 
bles, and  he  lit  his  cigarette. 

'  Will  you  oblige  me  by  looking  over  them  ? 
and  if  you  think  them  good  enough,  will 
you  give  me  an  introduction  to  a  music- 
publisher  ? ' 

16 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

'  I  will,'  said  Mr.  Neunzehn,  taking  my 
manuscripts,  and  opening  them  out  with  his 
diabolical  fingers.  He  was  all  diabolical, 
but  his  fingers  were  the  most  diabolical 
thing  about  him  —  long,  knotty,  sinewy,  as 
if  made  for  strangling. 

'Thank  you  very  much,'  I  said,  moving 
towards  the  door. 

'  Wait,'  he  replied.    '  I  will  do  it  just  now.' 

I  stood  stock  still  and  watched  him  as  he 
glanced  rapidly  through  my  scores.  He  was 
much  more  expeditious  than  I  liked.  How 
could  he  possibly  comprehend  in  a  few 
seconds  the  full  beauty  of  my  melodies, 
every  ^individual  note  of  which  had  been 
chosen  with  such  care  out  of  the  old  cottage 
piano's  yellow  keyboard,  and  thumped,  and 
stroked,  and  listened  to,  positively  for  hours, 
alone,  and  in  conjunction  with  the  others  of 
its  phase,  until  each  separate  sound  had 
become  so  charged  with  emotion  that  I 
could  n't  hear  one  of  them  without  quivering  ! 
And  my  chords  !  and  the  counterpoint  in  my 
symphonies !  He  could  n't  possibly  grasp 
the  full  harmony  and  subtlety  of  these  with- 
out at  least  playing  the  tunes  over  once. 
2  i 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

The  silver  fish  dashed  to  and  fro  behind 
their  glasses,  and  the  smoke  curled  up 
through  a  long,  thick,  gray  moustache  as  if 
to  cure  the  fish ;  but  no  change  in  the  dia- 
bolical expression  hinted  at  a  decision  one 
way  or  other.  When  he  had  turned  over 
the  last  page,  he  rolled  up  my  manuscripts 
and  handed  them  back  to  me,  rubbed  his 
shaved  cheeks,  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  that 
hid  his  face,  and  said  : 

'  No,  my  child.' 

'Why?'  I  faltered. 

'  Because  they  are  not  good  enough.' 

« Oh,  but  try  them  ! ' 

'I  have  read  them  through.' 

'  But  let  me  play  them  to  you ; '  and  I 
made  a  dash  at  the  piano. 

'  No,'  he  said,  closing  the  instrument.  '  It 
would  be  of  no  use.  Your  music  is  wrong, 
and  it  would  not  make  it  right  to  play  it.' 

I  said  to  myself :  '  The  battle  has  begun ; 
here 's  a  circumstance  with  a  vengeance : 
don't  give  in.'  Then  aloud  : 

'  If  you  show  me  the  mistakes  I  will  correct 
them.' 

'  You  could  n't.' 

18 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

'  Will  you  correct  them,  then  ?  '  I  sug- 
gested faintly. 

'I  never  correct  music  except  for  fools 
whose  money  might  get  into  worse  pockets 
than  mine.' 

I  thought  I  understood  now. 

'But  I  will  pay  you,  Mr.  Neunzehn,'  I 
said  sweetly,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  patron- 
age, hope  flaming  up  in  my  heart. 

'  You  're  a  stupid  little  girl '  —  I  was  a  foot 
taller  than  he.  *  Listen.'  He  seized  a  news- 
paper and  read  :  '  Some  prank  them  up  with 
oaken  leaves  ;  some  small- pox  hospitals,  and 
banished  as  far  as  pos-tribution  of  articles 
of  clothing  to  the  heads  of-pensations  to 
large  cities.' 

He  read  slowly,  making  pauses  and  inflec- 
tions as  if  the  matter  had  been  important ; 
then  his  cigarette  glowed  and  crackled 
faintly  like  a  squib,  and  a  cloud  of  smoke 
enveloped  him,  from  which  he  emitted 
hoarsely  the  terrible  sentence  : 

'  That  is  your  music.' 

'How?'  I  whispered,  stammering.  'I 
do  not  understand.  Will  you  read  it  again  ? ' 

He  showed  me  the  newspaper,  and  with 
19 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

his  diabolical  finger  tracked  a  line  of  type, 
straight  across  three  columns  and  a  half. 
He  read  also,  but  without  attempting  to 
make  it  sound  like  sense. 

'  That  is  your  music,'  he  repeated.  '  My 
dear  young  lady,  amateurs  come  to  me  every 
week  with  things  like  that  —  parts  of  remem- 
bered words  and  phrases,  correctly  spelt  as 
a  rule,  and  each  phrase  or  sentence  quite 
grammatical,  and  sometimes  containing  bits 
and  bobs  of  the  most  unconnected  mean- 
ings ;  and  they  think  they  have  made  music. 
It  just  needs  a  little  polishing,  they  know ; 
and  that  is  so  easy  for  me.  Look  at  these 
words  again.  See  :  out  of  four  columns  on 
four  different  subjects  !  Would  you  take  that 
to  Mr.  Standard,  and  ask  him  to  polish  it 
for  you,  to  make  it  into  one  clear  sentence? 
Read  it  again.  "  Some  prank  them  up  with 
oaken  leaves ;  some  small-pox  hospitals,  and 
banished  as  far  as  pos-tribution  of  articles  of 
clothing  to  the  heads  of-pensations  to  large 
cities."  You  might  by  taking  a  few  words 
and  rejecting  all  the  others  invent  a  sen- 
tence. But  that  won't  do  for  my  amateurs. 
They  bring  me  notes,  and  I  supply  the 
20 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

music,  the  meaning;  but  it  must  be  with 
their  notes.  They  select  nonsense,  and  I 
must  make  it  sense.  I  never  can  make  it 
sense  ;  but  it  pleases  them,  and  I  make  them 
pay  for  it,  I  can  tell  you.  You  are  young 
and  sensible,  and  can  learn  a  lesson.' 

The  cigarette  had  gone  out ;  the  fish  were 
pressed  close  to  the  glasses,  and  there  seemed 
to  be  more  water  in  the  aquarium  than  usual. 
The  old  man  was  pitying  me,  I  had  turned 
so  white. 

'  My  dear  child,'  he  continued,  '  you  must 
not  be  downcast.  I  am  like  a  surgeon. 
You  come  to  me  and  ask  me  if  you  have 
a  disease,  and  I  tell  you  that  you  have  not ; 
that  you  are  not  a  musician,  and  will  never 
be  one.  You  ought  to  be  very  glad.' 

Here  he  sighed,  and  I  saw  that  he  was 
pitying  himself.  I  pronounced  with  diffi- 
culty a  heartless  '  Thank  you,'  for  I  felt  he 
was  right.  Then  a  new  idea  occurred  to  me 
in  a  flash. 

'  Mr.  Neunzehn,'  I  said,  '  did  you  look  at 
the  words  of  my  songs  ?  ' 

*  Here  and  there.' 

'  What  do  you  think  of  them  ? ' 
21 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

'  Nothing ;  I  am  no  judge.' 

'Will  you  look  at  them,  and  if  you  like 
them  set  them  to  music  and  publish  them  ? ' 

'  No.     Look  here.' 

He  opened  a  press  and  showed  me  a  pile 
of  manuscript. 

'There  are  fifty  songs  composed  by  me — 
the  best  music  I  have  written ;  and  I  cannot 
get  one  of  them  published.  It  is  not  my 
reputation.  My  reputation  is  that  of  a  com- 
poser of  pianoforte  pieces.' 

But  I  did  n  't  give  in.     I  said : 

'  Can  you  introduce  me  to  any  one  who 
might  buy  my  songs  ? ' 

*  I  can.  Howard  Dapper  lives  three  doors 
from  here  on  the  right.' 

My  heart  bounded  at  the  name  of  the 
famous  composer,  and  I  could  have  kissed 
old  Neunzehn  as  he  wrote  me  an  introduction. 

'  My  time  is  more  than  up,'  he  said,  hand- 
ing me  the  letter.  '  We  will  go  out  together.' 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  hansom,  and 
I  gave  Mr.  Somers  another  encouraging 
nod. 

'  Dapper  may  be  stiff,'  said  Mr.  Neunzehn 
at  the  door  of  the  great  man's  house ;  '  but 
22 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

never  mind.  If  your  songs  please  him  he  '11 
buy  them.' 

Having  knocked  and  rung,  my  old  music- 
master  left  me  in  a  great  hurry. 

'Courage,  you  miserable,  trembling  cir- 
cumstance ! '  I  said  to  myself,  kicking  my 
heels  in  the  hall  till  Mr.  Dapper  should  have 
read  the  letter. 

Again  a  little  fellow,  less  than  Mr.  Neun- 
zehn  !  I  thought  of  the  tall,  straight,  au- 
burn-haired man  waiting  in  the  hansom ; 
but  I  plunged  into  business.  Mr.  Dapper 
had  received  me  stiffly,  and  I  was  just  as 
stiff. 

'I  have  with  me  the  songs  to  which  Mr. 
Neunzehn  refers,'  I  said.  '  May  I  read  them 
to  you  ? ' 

'  I  prefer  to  read  them  myself.' 

'  Unfortunately,  I  have  them  set  to  music 
here,  and  as  the  music  is  bad,  it  might  affect 
your  opinion  of  the  verses.' 

'  It  might.' 

'I  know  the  words  by  heart.  Shall  I 
repeat  them?' 

Mr.  Dapper  bowed,  and  I  recited  my 
songs  very  badly  indeed.  My  auditor's  pale, 
23 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

oily  face  and  purple  eyes,  like  a  plain  suet- 
pudding  into  which  two  raisins  had  got  by 
mistake,  had  a  dispiriting  effect.  The  songs, 
which  I  still  think  fair  productions  for  a  girl 
of  seventeen,  were  both  pathetic  :  in  the  one 
a  deserted  maiden  died ;  in  the  other,  a 
mother's  only  child.  When  I  had  done, 
Mr.  Dapper  coughed,  puckered  his  dumpling 
face,  and  delivered  a  short  address  in  a  juicy 
voice. 

'  Miss  Armstrong '  —  glancing  at  the  let- 
ter to  make  sure  of  my  name  — '  your  songs, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  do  not  suit  me.  I  will  be 
glad  to  look  at  any  other  verses  you  may 
have,  here  or  elsewhere,  suitable  for  pathetic 
ballads,  with  a  little  story ;  but  death  I  never 
like  introduced.  If  you  have  —  a  sort  of 
musical  duologue,  say,  to  occupy  about  half 
an  hour,  with  a  good,  rather  startling,  plot, 
and  a  little  fun,  I  shall  be  glad  to  look  at  it. 
Or  if  you  have  a  cantata  for  female  voices 
only,  I  shall  be  glad  to  look  at  that ;  but, 
remember,  I  always  like  something  with  a 
story  in  it ;  and  one  thing  I  always  object  to 
—  death,  in  the  broad  sense;  that  is,  de- 
scription.' 

24 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

*  But  death  is  a  circumstance,'  I  said,  at 
my  wit's  end.  '  It  happens  always.' 

'  We  will  not  argue  the  point,'  he  replied, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  '  If  you  are  really 
anxious  to  succeed  as  a  writer  of  words  for 
music,  you  must  be  guided  entirely  by  the 
requirements  of  the  composer;  but  —  and 
you  must  not  take  it  unkindly  —  I  do  not 
think  you  will  ever  succeed  in  that  way.  If 
you  wish  to  try,  send  me  a  cantata,  or  songs, 
or  a  duologue  to  occupy  half  an  hour  — 
these  are  things  I  need  immediately  —  but 
I  advise  you  not  to.' 

'  I  will,'  I  cried ;  '  I  will  go  and  write  them 
at  once.' 

'  I  advise  you  not  to.  I  am  almost  cer- 
tain that  they  would  n't  suit  me.' 

'Why?' 

'  I  will  tell  you.' 

Mr.  Dapper  had  gradually  dropped  his 
professional  tone  and  air.  Some  humanity 
had  slipped  into  him  covertly,  wrinkling  his 
brow  and  softening  his  mouth.  His  face 
looked  liker  a  pudding  than  ever  —  a  pud- 
ding that  had  been  boiled  in  a  cloth  and 
creased;  but  no  longer  a  plain  suet-pud- 
25 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

ding ;  rather  a  plum-pudding,  with  the  gra- 
ciousness  and  sweetness  of  that  Christmas 
delicacy.  A  light  also  shone  in  his  eyes,  as 
if  the  cook  had  lit  some  brandy,  and  I  ex- 
pected every  minute  to  see  a  sprig  of  holly 
appear  in  his  hair.  His  voice  was  still  juicy, 
not  with  the  tallowy  juiciness  of  a  suet-dump- 
ling, but  with  the  rich  and  fragrant  sap  of 
the  Yule  haggis  —  for  I  must  '  derange  my 
epitaphs,'  Mr.  Standard. 

« Miss  Armstrong,'  he  said, '  however  clever 
you  may  be,  you  are  much  too  young  to  suc- 
ceed in  this  kind  of  work.  It  takes  a  very 
practised  writer  to  make  a  song,  or  else  a 
special  talent,  which  I  don't  think  you  have. 
I  shall  tell  you  how  to  graduate  in  the  school 
of  song-making.  Write  a  tragedy,  and  pub- 
lish it ;  write  an  epic  in  twelve  books,  and 
publish  it ;  write  a  volume  of  miscellaneous 
verse,  and  publish  it;  write  a  great  novel, 
and  publish  it.  The  sale  of  these  remarka- 
ble works  will  teach  you  what  not  to  do; 
and  besides  having  acquired  facility  with 
your  pen,  you  will  have  expended  all  your 
idealism.  Then  you  will  be  in  a  condition 
to  write  six  original  songs,  which  no  com- 
26 


Miss   Armstrong's  Circumstances 

poser  will  take.  Then  you  will  write  one 
song  —  about  sitting  by  the  river  in  the 
moon,  or  walking  in  the  wood  when  May  is 
young  —  and  a  composer  —  this  composer, 
possibly  —  will  give  you  a  guinea  for  it ;  and 
while  you  are  dying  of  consumption  and 
starvation  your  song  will  be  sung  at  every 
concert  and  in  every  drawing-room,  and  be 
well  forgotten  before  the  dandelions  have 
grown  on  your  grave.  But '  —  and  here,  as 
if  he  had  been  a  conjurer  who  performed 
culinary  tricks  with  his  own  head,  he  shifted 
his  face  back  into  a  plain  suet-pudding  — 
'  but  if  you  have  a  cantata  for  female  voices 
only,  or  a  duologue  for  a  lady  and  gentleman 
to  occupy  about  half  an  hour,  or  songs  for 
pathetic  ballads,  I  will  be  glad  to  look  at 
them;  only,  death  I  always  object  to  — 
naked,  absolute  death,  or  even  a  broad  hint.' 
I  don't  remember  getting  out  of  Mr. 
Dapper's  house  and  getting  into  the  hansom. 
At  seventeen  hope  is  very  fierce  and  reck- 
less, and  is  always  staking  happiness  against 
some  old  song  or  other.  I  wakened  up  out 
of  a  blank  dream  in  the  midst  of  the  very 
street  where,  an  hour  before,  the  picturesque- 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

ness  of  London  had  dawned  on  me.  Prisons 
the  houses  seemed,  the  leprous  bricks  stained 
with  blood,  the  scanty  creepers  striving  piti- 
fully to  cover  up  the  loathsomeness.  The 
fluent  roll  of  the  hansom  —  was  it  a  hansom, 
or  some  dragon-car,  sweeping  along  a  pave- 
ment of  good  intentions?  '  FacilisJ  I  began 
to  myself,  when  Mr.  Standard's  face  in 
ebony,  surmounted  by  ram's  horns,  flashed 
in  at  the  window.  My  own  special,  private 
butt  become  a  demon  to  torment  me ! 
What  a  war  he  had  waged  against  quotations 
from  pocket  dictionaries  !  '  Fortiter  in  re,1 
I  said  aloud,  in  frantic  defiance  of  the  fiend. 
*  Re  spice  finem,  Ad  libitum,  Cuibono!'  The 
ebony  visage  vanished ;  but  another  was 
peering  into  mine  —  a  fresh  face,  with  won- 
dering hazel  eyes.  I  was  frightened  at  it, 
and  turned  away  —  to  think  about  myself 
again.  Why,  I  had  only  had  the  opinion  of 
two  men  —  the  one  old  and  soured  with  his 
half-success;  the  other  middle-aged  and 
cynical  from  prosperity.  My  music  was 
doubtless  as  bad  as  Mr.  Neunzehn  said,  and 
my  songs  too  maudlin  for  Mr.  Dapper ;  but 
as  meaningless  music  and  more  lachrymose 
28 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

songs  were  bought  and  sold  and  sung  every 
day.  I  would  visit  all  the  music-publishers 
in  London.  I  laughed,  and,  stopping  the 
cab,  told  the  driver  to  go  to  one  of  them. 

*  Closed,  ma'am.     Holiday.' 

Then  I  burst  into  tears,  and  Mr.  Somers 
directed  the  driver  to  take  us  home. 

I  drew  myself  together  and  cried  quietly. 
The  first  comforting  thought  that  came  to 
me  was,  that  if  this  had  not  been  a  holiday 
I  would  have  kept  William  and  myself  on  the 
rack  for  hours  yet.  I  had  given  in.  I  did 
make  an  attempt  to  return  to  my  own  side. 
'  Circumstances,'  I  thought, '  are  against  you. 
To-morrow  is  n't  a  holiday,  and  you  can  re- 
sume the  fight.  You  can  even  post  your 
music.'  But,  deep  down  in  my  own  heart, 
I  knew  I  had  made  a  mistake  about  myself; 
and  gradually  that  thought  came  up,  and  up, 
and  up,  until  I  writhed  and  wriggled  on  it  as  if 
I  had  been  impaled.  I  then  perceived  this 
was  something  very  like  remorse,  and,  feeling 
how  unworthy  it  was  of  one  who  had  deter- 
mined to  fight  circumstances  to  go  on  suffer- 
ing when  the  thing  was  over,  I  looked  up  at 
William.  He  was  staring  out  of  the  window, 
29 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

with  his  brows  knotted  and  his  mouth  set. 
There  was  pain  in  his  eyes,  and  I  thought  at 
first  he  was  ill.  As  I  watched  him  a  new 
idea  came  stealing  on  me  like  some  melan- 
choly music,  unheard  before,  but  strangely 
familiar.  It  filled  all  my  senses  like  the 
smell  of  roses  in  the  evening,  and  made  my 
body  feel  as  light  as  my  soul.  This  was  the 
new  idea :  he,  here  beside  me,  was  not  mis- 
erable for  himself;  he  was  suffering  for  me. 
A  great  desire  seized  me  to  lay  my  head 
down  on  this  man's  shoulder,  to  feel  his 
arms  about  me,  and  sleep  or  faint  away ;  and 
this  desire  would,  I  am  afraid,  have  had  its 
course  had  we  not  arrived  home  before  it 
overpowered  me. 

That  night,  in  the  half-furnished  room, 
William  said  to  me  what  he  had  failed  to  say 
in  the  morning.  How  he  said  it,  and  how  I 
replied  to  him,  shall  never  be  written  down. 
We  said  things  that  men  and  women  say  to 
each  other  only  once  —  things  high  and  sweet 
that  ink  would  soil,  and  an  eavesdropper 
mock.  .  .  . 

'  Ho-ho,  boy  ! ' 

30 


Miss  Armstrong's  Circumstances 

I  must  end  now.  A  little  circumstance  for 
which  William  and  I  are  responsible  —  I 
have  helped  to  cause  something  —  is  shout- 
ing in  the  next  room  for  what  nobody  can 
give  him  but  me. 


31 


A  WOULD-BE   LONDONER 

OANDRIDGE  came  to  London  too  late 
wj  for  what  he  wished  to  accomplish. 
His  ambition  was  to  be  a  Londoner.  It  is 
true  the  Londoner  is  made,  not  born ;  but, 
at  the  very  latest,  the  process  must  begin  at 
twenty-five.  Sandridge  was  two-and-thirty 
when  he  left  a  North  of  England  town,  a 
circle  of  interesting  acquaintances,  of  which 
he  was  the  centre,  and  a  roomy,  old-fashioned 
house  of  his  own,  for  London  solitude  and  a 
modest  apartment  near  Oxford  Circus. 

In  the  provincial  bosom,  faith,  even  at 
thirty-two,  meditates  Metropolitan  miracles. 
Sandridge  expected  to  have  the  London 
mountains  removed  by  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment who  was  his  second  cousin. 

'  Ah  ! '  said  the  Member,  '  you  must  begin 
to  learn  the  ropes  at  a  club.' 

Needing  for  himself  all  the  influence  he 
could  snatch,  he  resented  Sandridge's  uncon- 
32 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

nected  state,  and  refused  him  a  single  bone. 
That  is  the  use  of  the  fable  of  '  knowing  the 
ropes  ' ;  nobody  believes  in  it,  but  it  is  very 
convenient  to  refer  to  when  you  are  asked 
for  assistance. 

'  It 's  a  shame  ! '  grumbled  the  Member. 
'  A  man's  relatives  ought  to  be  able  to  help 
him,  instead  of  requiring  help.'  So  he  put 
up  his  cousin  at  an  expensive  new  club. 
*  Let  him  find  out  the  ropes  there  if  he  can,' 
he  snarled  to  an  acquaintance.  'As  well 
there  as  anywhere,  when  you  think  of  it, 
though,'  he  continued,  reconsidering.  '  Have 
you  found  out  the  ropes?  Has  any  one  ever 
found  out  the  ropes?  No;  there's  no  rig- 
ging about  it.  It's  simply  a  huge  tumbling 
coil  of  hemp  and  iron,  all  tarred  with  the 
same  stick ;  and  you  get  hold  of  a  hawser-end 
or  a  chain-cable,  and  hang  on  or  drop  off.' 

In  the  smoking-room  of  the  new  club, 
Sandridge  made  diffident  remarks  about  the 
young  Disraeli,  the  young  Bulwer;  about 
Count  D'Orsay,  about  great  talkers,  about 
personalities  who  had  been  powerful  outside 
of  politics,  literature,  and  art.  These  were 
the  Londoners  he  had  talked  of  with  such 
3  33 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

confidence  in  the  North.  He  and  his  friends 
had  discussed  their  waistcoats,  their  elo- 
quence, their  repartees;  their  influence  on 
fashions  of  dress,  fashions  of  speech,  fashions 
of  thought. 

In  a  month's  time  Sandridge's  diffidence 
changed  into  taciturnity.  The  younger  club- 
men chaffed  him,  and  called  him  '  the  Dis- 
raelian  Johnny.'  He  withdrew  into  corners 
and  moped  in  anterooms.  One  afternoon 
Lieutenant  Hopeby,  of  the  Purple  Guards, 
lounged  in  beside  him.  He  was  a  very 
exquisite  giant,  twenty-three  years  old,  guile- 
less, as  certain  about  everything  as  a  child 
of  seven ;  and  his  forte  was  patronage.  He 
felt  himself  an  amateur  Providence,  and  was 
always  on  the  look-out  for  somebody  to  con- 
sole. It  was  he,  and  Sandridge  knew  it, 
who  had  struck  out  the  phrase  'the  Dis- 
raelian  Johnny ' ;  but  it  was  also  he,  and 
he  only,  who  had  given  any  real  attention 
to  Sandridge's  remarks. 

'Well,  old  chap,'  began   Hopeby,  in  his 
paternal  way.     'Let's  have   a   comfortable 
talk.     How  do  you  get  on?     Do  you  find 
yourself  becoming  a  regular  Londoner?' 
34 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

Sandridge  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair, 
but  he  was  quite  powerless.  He  thought, 
writhing  mentally,  how  Disraeli  would  have 
touched  this  youngster  with  a  point  of  flame 
able  to  drill  a  passage  even  through  his 
armour-plating  of  conceit,  whereas  he  hadn  't 
a  leaden  dart  to  throw. 

'  I  am  afraid,'  he  stammered,  '  I  am  too 
old.  "  Art  is  long,  and  life  is  short,"  you 
know.' 

'But  you  mustn't  say  that,'  replied  the 
Purple  Guard  kindly.  'Look  at  —  what's 
his  name? — the  old  Roman  who  began  to 
learn  Greek  on  his  deathbed.  It 's  never 
too  late  to  learn,  as  the  penitent  thief  said. 
But  what 's  your  difficulty,  Sandridge  ? ' 

'  Nobody  ever  asks  me  anywhere  ;  I  never 
have  a  chance  to  — ' 

'  To  what  ?     Come,  old  chap.' 

'  Well,'  said  Sandridge,  shifting  uneasily  in 
his  chair,  'it's  not  like  me  to  talk  in  this 
way  —  ah  —  Hopeby ;  but  I  seldom  have  a 
chance  to  talk  to  anybody  now.  I  'm  awfully 
ambitious.'  He  could  have  bitten  his  tongue 
off  at  every  word.  '  You  've  heard  my  idea 
of  the  Londoner,  his  place  and  power.  My 
35 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

intention  is  to  be  a  Londoner  of  that  kind. 
I  have  educated  myself  for  such  a  position 
by  the  study  —  by  many  studies  ;  just  as  one 
is  educated  to  take  Orders,  or  for  the  Army. 
But  I  get  no  opportunity  to  —  to  exercise 
my  functions.' 

'  Hard  on  you  —  eh  ?  But  I  say,  you 
know,  you  're  quite  an  original,  Sandridge. 
It 's  a  new  branch ;  deportment 's  nothing 
to  this.  You  should  have  a  professorship, 
my  boy;  teach  them  to  be  Londoners.  I 
saw  an  article  in  a  paper  the  other  day : 
"Wanted  —  a  new  occupation."  Here  you 
have  it :  "  The  art  of  being  a  Londoner 
—  in  twenty  lessons."  You  could  charge 
what  you  like ;  and  you  'd  get  it  —  for  a 
time.' 

'  But  I  'm  demoralised,'  rejoined  Sandridge, 
overlooking  Hopeby's  banter.  '  The  fellows 
here  don't  understand  me.'  Then  he  added 
very  slowly,  measuring  his  words  that  some- 
times faltered,  and  with  eyes  that  flickered 
between  confidence  and  timidity :  '  I  take  it 
that  I  have  not  yet  met  a  foeman  worthy  of 
my  steel.  At  a  dinner  of  celebrities  I  believe 
I  could  at  once  make  my  mark.' 
36 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

The  Purple  Guard  sat  up,  and  stared  at 
Sandridge  for  fully  a  minute. 

'Yes,'  continued  Sandridge,  misunder- 
standing the  other's  silence,  and  feeling,  to 
his  own  surprise,  as  secure  as  a  man  who 
had  led  the  ace  of  trumps  for  the  last  trick  — 
*  yes,  Hopeby ;  my  place  is  in  those  circles 
where  conversation  is  understood.  Here 
every  man  is  full  of  himself  and  his  own 
little  affairs.  They  talk  of  the  club  cuisine, 
of  their  regiment,  of  an  actress,  or  of  a 
billiard-player;  a  thought,  an  epigram,  only 
makes  them  raise  their  eyebrows.  I  feel 
among  you  like  an  eagle  in  a  dovecot.' 

The  Purple  Guard  sat  back,  and  watched 
Sandridge  through  his  eyelashes. 

'  Conversation  is  like  piano-playing,'  went 
on  the  would-be  Londoner,  '  and  is  not  truly 
valued  except  by  virtuosos.  Most  of  you 
fellows,  now,  would  as  soon  hear  a  piano- 
organ  as  Paderewski.  I  have  practised  talk- 
ing ;  we  used  to  practise  it  for  hours  daily  in 
the  North  —  the  genial  initiative,  the  sudden 
digression,  the  calculated  repartee,  the  retort 
in  ambush,  the  fitted  apologue,  the  grooved 
anecdote,  the  cascade  of  words,  the  slow  sen- 
37 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

tentious  movement,  the  intolerant  harangue  ; 
we  had  an  art  and  practice  of  talk  with  a 
terminology  all  our  own.  Yes,  Hopeby;  I 
.  have  it  in  me  to  make  a  great  name  as  a 
conversationalist.' 

The  Purple  Guard  sat  up  again.  His  sur- 
prise was  over.  It  took  this  young  man  a 
very  short  time  to  docket  and  dismiss  any 
revelation  of  character. 

'  You  're  one  of  the  queerest  chaps  I  ever 
met,  Sandridge,'  he  cried ;  '  and  I  '11  tell  you 
what  I  '11  do  for  you.  You  know  my  uncle, 
the  Pope.' 

'  Your  uncle,  the  Pope  ?  ' 

'  I  see  you  don't.  Major  Hopeby-Bonner, 
my  uncle,  is  one  of  the  best  talkers  in  London 
—  or  has  that  reputation,  which  is  better. 
Somebody  of  consequence  whom  he  snubbed 
called  him  the  Pope,  and  the  name  stuck. 
Now,  he's  dining  here  with  me  to-night. 
You  come  too,  and  the  pair  of  you  can  talk 
for  a  wager.' 

Sandridge  accepted  in  a  faint  voice.     He 

wished  that  it  had  been  anybody  but  Major 

Hopeby-Bonner' s   nephew    who   had   asked 

him,  because  he   would  have   preferred   to 

38 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

decline  the  invitation.  He  and  his  friends 
had  discussed  the  Major ;  his  novels,  poems, 
and  essays  had  been  declared  inferior  — 
the  work  of  a  callow  amateur.  Rumours  of 
his  gifts  as  a  talker  had  also  reached  the 
North,  and  it  had  been  decided  that  he  was 
a  mere  farceur,  on  a  level  with  the  jester  of 
antiquity.  Sandridge  had  imagined  himself 
brushing  off  like  flies  such  people  as  Major 
Hopeby-Bonner ;  to  be  asked  to  meet  him  as 
a  man  of  the  first  importance  blew  the  foun- 
dation-stone out  of  his  aerial  castle.  But  he 
quickly  built  another  one,  told  himself  it  would 
be  practice,  went  to  his  room,  drank  tea,  and 
dipped  into  lives  of  Carlyle,  Beaconsfield, 
Macaulay,  and  Houghton,  till  dinner-time. 

The  Purple  Guard  introduced  Sandridge 
to  his  uncle  as  '  a  talking  chap,  too.'  Sand- 
ridge, perspiring,  wondered  what  Carlyle 
would  have  done  in  such  a  circumstance. 

Major  Hopeby-Bonner,  like  most  garrulous 
people,  was  a  reticent,  bashful  man,  who 
plunged  into  speech  because  silence  was  ac- 
companied with  the  discomfort  of  greater 
self-consciousness. 

'Talk,'  said  the  Major,  'is  diluted  silence. 
39 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

I  confess  I  could  never  carry  more  than  a 
thimbleful  of  neat  silence  in  an  evening.' 

'The  idea',  rejoined  Sandridge,  very  white, 
and  in  an  unsteady  voice,  but  wishing  to  say 
something  strong  at  once,  'is  —  ah  — hardly 

—  is   not  —  quite  —     It   might   have    been 
phrased  differently.' 

He  was  thinking  that  Beaconsfield  would 
never  have  used  such  a  commonplace  image. 

'It  might,'  assented  the  Major,  much 
amused.  '  How  would  you  phrase  it  ? ' 

'Well,  I  would  have  said,'  stammered 
Sandridge,  '  that  —  you  remember  Carlyle 

—  Really,  I  think  there  is  nothing  to  beat 
the  proverb,   "  Silence  is  golden."  ' 

'  A  good  proverb.  But  what  is  the  con- 
nection ? ' 

'  The  connection  ? '  Eh  —  we  were  talking 
of  silence  ;  at  least,  I  think  so.' 

The  Major  smiled,  and  went  on  with  his 
soup ;  and  the  Purple  Guard  said,  half  aside 
to  Sandridge  : 

'  Bravo !     That    must    be   the    retort   in 

ambush  —  eh  ?     You  've     floored     him  ;    he 

has  n  't  a  word  to  say,  you  see.'     He  added  : 

'  What  do  you  think  of  London,  Sandridge  ? ' 

40 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

'It's  —  very  big,'  stammered  Sandridge  ; 
'and  enormous  crowds  and  'buses,  and  —  I 
understand  the  fogs  are  dreadful.' 

He  had  no  idea  of  what  he  was  saying ; 
he  was  going  over  in  his  mind  the  sentences 
that  had  passed  between  himself  and  the 
Major,  trying  to  improve  or  explain  away 
his  own  ineptitude. 

'  Ah  !  the  slow  sententious  movement,'  mur- 
mured the  Purple  Guard. 

'  I  have  been  in  London  half  my  life,' 
said  the  Major  ;  'and  yet  the  mere 
speaking  of  the  word  "  London,"  the  over- 
hearing it  said  casually,  often  thrills  me 
with  a  sense  of  terror,  and  wonder,  and 
delight.' 

'  Mesopotamia,'  trolled  the  Purple  Guard. 

Sandridge,  still  several  remarks  behind 
time,  struck  in : 

'The  connection,  Major  Hopeby-Bonner, 
between  what  you  said  about  silence  and 
what  I  said  is  perhaps,  at  first  sight,  not 
very  evident,  but  —  ' 

There  he  paused,  and  for  the  life  of  him 
could  not  resume  his  sentence. 

'  We  're  waiting  for  the  "  sudden  digres- 
41 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

sion,"  '  said  the  Guardsman ;  and  the  Major 
smiled  encouragingly. 

But  it  was  all  over  with  Sandridge;  he 
went  hot  and  cold,  turned  ghastly  pale, 
pleaded  illness,  and  withdrew. 

That  was  his  last  appearance  in  a  club  or 
any  haunt  of  men  for  a  long  time.  He  ceased 
all  correspondence  with  his  old  friends;  he 
hid  away  his  biographies  and  books  of  table- 
talk,  took  all  his  food  in  his  own  room,  walked 
about  the  streets  at  night  muttering  to  him- 
self, grew  gray  and  bent,  and  was  watched 
by  the  police.  One  autumn  evening,  feeling 
that  actual  madness  beset  him  in  his  solitude, 
he  slipped  into  the  concert-room  of  the  Cafe" 
Cosmopolite.  The  band  had  just  ceased  play- 
ing a  selection  from  '  II  Trovatore,'  and  the 
crowd  was  somewhat  subdued.  Many  noticed 
Sandridge,  and  were  moved  by  his  appear- 
ance. His  furtive  life  had  given  him  a  stealthy, 
gliding  motion.  His  grizzled  hair,  which  he 
wore  long,  had  gone  off  his  forehead,  and 
showed  a  high  brow ;  his  beard  was  also  long 
and  wizard-like.  His  slender,  stooping  figure, 
pale  face,  and  deep-set,  haunted  eyes,  in- 
terested some  spectators,  and  made  others 
42 


A  Would-be  Londoner 

uneasy.  He  felt  the  impression  he  created, 
and  was  gratified.  Next  night  he  returned, 
and  soon  formed  a  habit  of  dining  at  the 
Cafe  Cosmopolite  every  evening.  He  enters 
a  cold,  self-centred  figure,  with  wolfish,  wan- 
dering eyes,  like  those  of  one  who  had  been 
racked,  and  glides  to  his  chosen  seat.  Women 
catch  their  breath  as  he  passes,  and  all  who 
see  him  for  the  first  time  ask  who  he  is.  Some 
think  him  like  a  picture  of  Christ ;  others,  like 
Mephistopheles.  The  waiters  know  nothing 
of  him,  but  tell  country  visitors  that  he  is 
this,  that,  or  the  other  celebrity,  according 
to  fancy.  He  must  be  served  in  silence; 
points  out  on  the  card  and  the  wine-list  what 
he  requires,  and  eats  ravenously.  He  is  never 
heard  to  utter  a  word  except  '  Go  away  ! '  if, 
as  sometimes  happens,  a  waiter  forgets  and 
addresses  him. 

He  is  the  type  of  failure,  and  a  legend  be- 
gins to  grow  round  him.  His  ambition  was 
paltry,  but  he  pursued  it  highly.  Defeated  in 
his  effort  to  be  first,  he  refused  any  other  place ; 
and  it  is  this  element  of  greatness  in  his  char- 
acter which  makes  him  now  so  impressive  an 
apparition  in  the  Cafe  Cosmopolite. 
43 


SOME   POOR  FOLK 

IT  was  at  Banning,  on  an  Autumn  after- 
noon in  1893,  that  I  lighted  on  a  hop- 
picker's  encampment ;  thirty  -  seven  white 
tents  gleaming  in  a  white  field.  Half  the 
people  were  in  their  tents,  and  the  remainder 
divided  between  the  public-house  and  the 
pay-office.  The  hop-pickers'  day  is  a  short 
one  —  from  seven  till  four,  with  half  an  hour 
or  an  hour's  interval.  The  early  stoppage  is 
necessary,  because  the  day's  picking  has  to 
be  measured,  and  that  is  a  tedious  process. 

I  went  into  the  encampment  and  sat  down 
beside  a  man,  apparently  a  little  over  middle- 
age,  who  was  lounging  at  the  door  of  his 
tent.  A  little  fellow  of  three  romped  about 
him,  and  a  girl  of  fourteen  was  lighting  a 
fire  of  sticks.  The  man  had  a  pleasant, 
clean-shaven  face,  and  dark,  dancing  eyes. 
He  replied  bashfully  to  my  salutation,  but 
seemed  well  pleased  that  I  should  speak  to 
44 


Some  Poor  Folk 

him.  Hardly  had  we  started  a  conversation 
when  a  woman  came  up  dressed  in  rusty 
black.  She  said  a  few  words  aside  to  the 
man,  and  was  about  to  move  away,  but 
remained  when  I  asked  her  if  she  liked  this 
outdoor  life. 

'  Well,'  she  said,  '  I  shall  have  a  few  shil- 
lings over  when  the  picking  's  done,  and  I 
had  no  money  at  all  when  I  came.' 

'  She  's  just  out  of  hospital,'  said  the  man. 

'  Yes,  sir,'  she  went  on ;  *  I  had  pleurisy, 
and  have  been  in  hospital  for  months.' 

'  She  was  once  better  off,'  interjected  the 
man  in  a  half-aside.  '  She  kept  a  lodging- 
house  in  Kensington.' 

'  A  tent  is  hardly  the  place  for  a  con- 
valescent —  from  pleurisy,  too,'  I  said. 

'  That 's  true,'  she  assented  ;  '  but  when  I 
came  out  of  hospital  a  fortnight  ago  I  had 
only  two  or  three  shillings  in  my  pocket,  and 
no  home,  and  no  friends.  I  had  been  hop- 
ping when  I  was  a  girl,  and  I  knew  if  I  could 
get  down  here  I  would  n't  starve  for  a  week 
or  two.  My  money  brought  me  down  and 
no  more.  I  have  no  bedding  and  no  clothes 
but  what 's  on  me ;  and  I  have  got  to  keep 
45 


extraordinar'  clean  to  be  clean.'  (She 
looked  very  clean  and  tidy.)  'At  night 
without  bedding  it 's  very  cold  in  the  tent, 
and  if  he,'  nodding  to  the  man,  ' did  n't  give 
me  two  coats  to  put  over  me  I  would  be 
frozen.  I  'm  always  glad  when  the  morning 
comes.  Cold  as  I  am,  though,  it's  colder 
still  when  I  get  up  and  out ;  it 's  like  going 
into  the  sea.  It  makes  me  nimble,  I  can  tell 
you.  I  light  the  fire  and  make  the  tea,  and 
then  we  all  get  up.' 

'  All ! '  I  said.  '  How  many  are  there  of 
you?' 

'  Nine,'  replied  the  man.  '  There  's  me 
and  the  missus  and  the  three  children; 
mother  here,  a  young  couple,  and  a  lad.' 

'  Then  you  came  down  hi  company  ? ' 

'  No ;  we  never  saw  each  other  till  the 
overseer  put  us  together  in  this  tent.' 

'But  I  thought  that  hoppers  travelled  in 
companies  ? ' 

'  Many  of  them  do ;  but  there  's  lots  of 
couples  and  families  and  singles  that  come 
down  independent.' 

The  convalescent  left  us  on  some  errand, 
and  when  she  had  gone  the  man  said  some 
46 


Some  Poor  Folk 

things  about  her,  chiefly  in  praise  of  her 
spirit  and  her  good-nature. 

'  She 's  no  home  to  go  to,  and  I  think 
she  '11  go  back  with  us  for  the  winter.  My 
daughter  there,  she  's  fourteen  and  can  go 
out  to  service ;  and  the  old  lady  would  be 
a  great  help  in  the  house,  and  her  meat 
would  n't  be  missed.' 

I  asked  if  I  might  be  allowed  to  look  into 
the  tent.  The  man  laughingly  permitted 
me ;  but  there  was  nothing  to  see.  A  thick 
carpet  of  clean  dry  straw,  some  bundles  of 
bedding,  a  perambulator,  and  a  few  metal 
and  earthenware  plates  constituted  the  en- 
tire plenishing,  the  pots  and  pans  being 
outside.  I  asked  him  if  he  really  liked 
camping  out. 

'  Yes,'  he  replied, '  I  like  it  very  well.  I  've 
always  been  a  roving  blade.  I  ran  away 
from  home  when  I  was  fourteen,  and  have 
turned  my  hand  to  many  a  thing.  I  've  been 
a  painter,  a  docker,  a  barber,  a  carpenter.  I 
was  in  a  country  post-office  for  three  years, 
and  I  was  in  the  Customs  on  the  hop-duty 
before  the  tax  was  taken  off.  At  home 
I  'm  a  painter  again,  but  I  'm  too  old  to 
47 


Some  Poor  Folk 

be  on  the  market ;  besides,  my  health 's 
giving  way,  and  I  can  do  only  half  a  man's 
work.' 

'  How  old  are  you  ?  You  don't  look  over 
fifty.' 

'  I  'm  sixty-three,  sir.  I  know  I  don't 
look  it  in  the  face ;  but  my  back  's  giving 
way.' 

'Then  this  little  three-year-older  will  be 
your  grandson? ' 

'  No,  my  son ;  and  there  's  a  baby  eight 
months  old.  I  'm  married  to  my  second 
wife,  and  she 's  thirty  years  younger  than 
me.  She  was  a  cook  in  a  good  family.  I 
painted  her  kitchen  once,  and  we  made  it 
up.  She  's  a  good  wife,  and  a  good  cook,  is 
my  missus.  She  makes  sixpence  go  as  far 
as  half-a-crown,  and  the  Queen  might  eat  the 
dinners  she  turns  out.' 

During  my  talk  with  the  hop-picker  there 
had  been  a  constant  coming  and  going 
through  the  gap  in  the  paling  by  which  I 
had  entered  the  encampment.  Those  who 
came  were  returning  from  the  pay-office,  and 
those  who  went  were  mostly  going  away  for 
good. 

48 


Some  Poor  Folk 

<Why  do  they  give  up,'  I  asked,  'when 
there  's  plenty  of  picking  to  be  done  yet? ' 

« Well,  you  see,'  the  old  man  replied, 
'  they  Ve  just  been  paid ;  they  '11  have  from 
ten  shillings  to  a  pound  in  their  pockets; 
and  they  know  that  though  they  were  to 
stay  here  hop-picking  for  a  year,  they  would 
never  have  any  more  to  go  away  with  in  the 
end.  They  're  tired  of  it  already,  too,  and 
away  back  to  Whitechapel  or  the  Borough.' 

1 How  long  have  they  been  at  it? ' 

'  About  a  fortnight.' 

'And  could  n't  they  have  another  ten  shil- 
lings or  so  to  add  to  what  they  have  saved 
at  the  end  of  another  fortnight  ?  ' 

'  But  they  did  n't  save  what  they  have,  or 
they  would  n't  have  it ;  it  was  saved  for 
them.  You  see  we  're  allowed  to  draw  small 
sums  as  we  need  them  while  we  're  working, 
and  when  the  job 's  done  we  get  the  balance. 
Most  of  the  folks  you  see  going  away  know 
quite  well  that  they  're  sure  to  spend  all  they 
have  before  they  would  think  of  working 
again,  and  so  they  're  off  home  to  take  it  out 
in  gin  crawls.  Some  of  them  may  come 
back  again  and  get  another  turn.' 
4  49 


Some  Poor  Folk 

'  Will  you  cut  my  hair  to-day,  then,  old 
un  ? '  cried  a  gruff  voice  suddenly. 

'  I  will,'  said  my  new  acquaintance,  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  springing  up  into  a 
long  stooping  figure  that  seemed  hardly  to 
belong  to  his  fresh  face. 

The  new-comer  sat  on  the  ground,  and 
the  old  man  cut  his  hair  in  a  thoroughly 
workman-like  style. 

'A  soldier?'  I  queried,  judging  from  the 
manner  of  the  man  and  his  moustache. 

'  Yes,  guv'nor,'  he  replied.     '  All  that.' 

'  Been  in  active  service  ? ' 

'  Boer  expedition.' 

'  Killed  your  man  ?  ' 

'That  would  be  hard  to  tell.  /  got  a 
scratch  on  my  arm.' 

'  Pension  ?  ' 

*  Some  coppers  a  day.' 

When  his  elf-locks  were  trimmed  the  sol- 
dier gave  the  barber  threepence. 

'  Your  charge  is  a  penny,'  he  said  ;  '  but 
if  you  had  n't  done  it  I  'd  have  had  to 
pay  threepence  in  a  shop.  Good-day, 
guv'nor.' 

He  was  not  at  all  a  bad  kind  of  man.  He 
50 


Some  Poor  Folk 

span  no  yarns,  and  the  laconic  bluster  of  his 
speech  was  original. 

Shortly  after  he  was  gone  a  shrill  outcry 
arose  in  the  road,  and  in  a  second  or  two  a 
hale  old  woman  of  about  seventy  entered  the 
field  by  the  gap  in  the  paling.  She  was 
alone,  complaining  aloud  to  the  heavens  and 
the  earth. 

'  He  says  he  '11  keep  my  clothes,'  she  said. 
'  But  he  can't  —  he  can't  do  it.  Seven  shil- 
lings !  I  '11  give  him  no  seven  shillings.' 

She  was  hobbling  past  the  tent  at  which  I 
sat  when  she  caught  sight  of  me,  an  unusual 
apparition  in  the  encampment.  She  stopped 
promptly,  and  came  up.  Her  face,  which 
was  still  comely,  was  as  white  as  paper,  her 
mouth  worked,  and  her  big,  hard,  blue  eyes 
had  a  steely  light  in  them. 

'  Master,'  she  cried,  clenching  her  hands, 
« he  says  he  '11  keep  my  clothes  —  the  pole- 
puller  says  he  '11  keep  my  clothes  if  I  don't 
give  him  seven  shillings.  But  he  can't  do 
it ;  there  's  no  law  for  it  —  is  there,  master?  ' 

'  Surely  not,'  I  said. 

The  woman  was  beside  herself  with  fury ;  it 
would  have  been  folly  to  ask  what  she  meant. 


Some  Poor  Folk 

*  No ;  he  can't  keep  my  clothes  ! '  she 
shrieked ;  and  trudged  away  to  her  own  tent. 

The  man  beside  me  knew  what  was  wrong ; 
the  explanation  will  be  better  understood 
after  a  description  of  the  method  of  hop- 
gathering. 

The  hop-pickers  work  in  what  are  called 
'bins-companies.'  The  bin  is  a  wooden 
frame  divided  into  two  compartments  lined 
with  sacking.  One  picker,  who  may  have 
as  much  help  as  he  or  she  chooses,  is  respon- 
sible for  each  compartment.  Five  bins  are 
counted  to  a  company ;  and  a  man,  called  a 
pole-puller,  is  told  off  to  keep  each  company 
supplied  with  hops.  This  he  does  by  uproot- 
ing the  pole  on  which  the  vine  grows. 

'  And  what  claim  can  the  pole-puller  have 
on  this  old  woman  ?  '  I  asked. 

'  He  has  none  ;  but  he  thinks  he  '11  get  a 
shilling  or  two  out  of  her.  She  cooked  his 
dinner,  and  washed  his  shirt  for  him  ;  and  in 
order  that  she  mightn't  lose  anything,  he 
picked  for  her  every  day  while  she  was  off 
duty,  as  you  might  say.  And  now  he  wants 
seven  shillings.' 

'  But  the  arrangement  was  —  was  n't  it  ?  — 

52 


Some  Poor  Folk 

that  he  should  pick  for  her  in  return  for  her 
cookery  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  but  he  thinks  he  '11  make  more  of 
it,  you  see.' 

'But  that 's  very  unfair.' 

'  I  say  it 's  damned  scoundrelly,  sir,  to 
keep  the  old  woman's  blankets.' 

'  Master,  he  can't  keep  my  clothes  —  can 
he?'  shrieked  the  old  woman,  reappearing 
suddenly  from  behind  the  tent. 

<  Certainly  not,'  I  said. 

'  No,  sir ;  he  can't,'  she  continued.  '  He 
wants  seven  shillings,  but  I  '11  not  give  him 
a  sixpence.  I  '11  get  the  policeman ; '  and 
away  she  went  to  the  village  again,  an  em- 
bodiment of  concentrated  rage,  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  justice  of  her  cause  lighting 
up  her  old  worn  face. 

I  have  never  seen  a  fiercer  blaze  of  indig- 
nation ;  there  was  divinity  in  the  clear  fire 
of  wrath  that  burnt  in  her  eyes  against  the 
wrong-doer.  She  was  not  thinking  of  her 
blankets;  she  was  consumed  with  a  great, 
simple  anger  at  dishonesty  brought  directly 
home  to  her. 

My  companion  and  I  sat  silent  for  several 
53 


Some  Poor  Folk 

minutes  after  the  old  woman  was  gone. 
Two  carriages  rolled  past  on  the  highway, 
above  which  the  field  of  the  encampment 
ascended  about  twenty  feet.  Shouts  and 
laughter,  oaths  and  screams,  rose  from  most 
of  the  tents  behind  us,  and  fainter  cries 
came  from  the  village  inn  about  a  furlong 
away.  Couples  and  parties  passed  out  and 
in,  discussing  and  quarrelling.  I  saw  only 
one  amicable  couple  among  those  who  left 
the  encampment  —  an  old  soldier  gave  his 
old  wife  his  arm,  and  they  smiled  to  each 
other  and  talked  quietly,  walking  sedately  to 
the  station. 

'They  're  for  Woolwich,'  said  my  acquaint- 
ance. *I  shaved  the  man  this  morning. 
He  told  me  they  've  made  enough  to  lay  in 
a  ton  o'  coal  for  the  winter.' 

The  sloping  sun  got  free  of  the  clouds  that 
began  to  redden,  and  a  ruddy  tinge  of  even- 
ing touched  the  trees  and  the  distant  smoke- 
wreaths  of  the  oasthouses.  The  fire  which 
the  hop-picker's  daughter  had  heaped  up 
with  faggots  hummed  and  sang  softly  all  in 
a  clear  flame,  and  a  big  pan  of  water  above 
it  began  to  keep  a  low  antiphone  of  liquid 
54 


Some  Poor  Folk 

sounds.  On  the  highway  the  shadows  grew 
long ;  homing  birds  flew  across  the  valley  of 
the  Medway;  far  away  on  the  undulating 
horizon  darkness  flickered  up  faintly,  the 
early  dawn  of  night. 

'  He  can't  keep  my  clothes ;  the  police- 
man says  I  'm  not  married  to  him  ! '  cried 
the  wrathful  old  dame,  once  more  appearing 
through  the  gap  in  the  paling.  '  Master,' 
she  cried,  for  the  third  time  stopping  before 
me,  '  the  policeman  says  I  'm  not  married  to 
him,  so  he  can't  keep  my  clothes.  I  '11  give 
him  no  seven  shillings.' 

We  heard  her  exclaiming  triumphantly  all 
the  way  through  the  encampment,  '  The 
policeman  says  I  'm  not  married  to  him ! 
The  policeman  says  I  'm  not  married  to 
him!' 

In  a  few  minutes  she  returned,  exclaiming  : 

*  I  '11  bring  the  policeman  —  I  '11  go  and 
bring  the  policeman.  He  can't  keep  my 
clothes ;  I  'm  not  married  to  him.' 

She  stopped,  however,  at  the  paling,  and 

held  on  to  it  for  a  second  or  two.     Then  she 

turned,  and,  gulping  down  a  tempest  of  sobs, 

muttered, '  I  '11  give  him  half-a-crown.'     This 

55 


Some  Poor  Folk 

time  she  did  not  look  near  me ;  she  felt  her- 
self beaten  —  that  she  was  yielding  to  in- 
justice. She  slunk  away  at  that  moment, 
one  of  the  most  wretched  of  all  creatures 
under  the  sun.  She  was  a  strong  old 
woman,  in  good  health,  and  better  dressed 
than  most  of  her  companions ;  but  the  poor- 
est and  most  thriftless  of  them  all  was  hap- 
pier than  she,  with  her  divine  sense  of 
justice  unappeased,  and  forced  to  yield  to 
wrong.  A  compromise  must  have  been 
effected ;  for  I  saw  her  later  on  with  all 
her  belongings  on  the  road  to  the  station, 
dejected  but  scornful. 

'  Here  's  my  missus,'  said  the  man,  smil- 
ing to  a  comely  dame,  who  came  up  and 
clinked  down  beside  us. 

Her  baby  was  at  her  breast  —  a  fine,  fat 
little  fellow,  fair,  and  already  looking  like  his 
mother.  I  asked  if  the  child  did  not  incom- 
mode her  much  at  her  work. 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  she  said,  and  showed  me  how 
she  fastened  him  in  a  shawl  round  her  waist 
while  she  picked  the  hops. 

I  remarked  on  his  capital  condition.     She 
rejoined  that  he  was  a  lusty  little  chap,  and 
56 


Some  Poor  Folk 

added  naively,  '  This  was  my  Christmas-box.' 
She  then  produced  her  tally-book,  and 
counted  out  half  a  sovereign  and  some  shil- 
lings and  coppers  to  her  husband.  He 
counted  them  over,  too,  and  returned  them 
to  her. 

'  I  've  had  a  bit  o'  luck,  besides,'  said  the 
woman.  '  Two  shillings  for  bin-money.' 

Her  husband  congratulated  her,  and  told 
her  of  his  earnings  with  his  scissors  and 
razor.  Bin-money,  I  learnt,  was  an  extra 
payment,  sometimes  given  and  sometimes 
not,  to  those  who  looked  after  their  own  bin, 
dragging  it  about  from  place  to  place  as 
required.  I  bought  the  woman's  tally-book, 
and  have  it  before  me  now.  Between  August 
21  and  29 —  the  hop-harvest  was  most  ex- 
ceptionally early  in  1893  —  she  and  her 
step-daughter  pulled  136  bushels  of  hops, 
the  greatest  quantity  on  one  day  being  27 
bushels,  the  least  n.  A  shilling  for  6  bush- 
els gives  22S.  8d.  From  August  30  to  Sep- 
tember 4,  they  pulled  89  bushels,  for  which, 
as  the  hops  were  of  a  better  quality,  they 
were  paid  at  the  rate  of  is.  for  5  bushels. 
That  gives  roundly  lys.  \od.  The  fort- 
57 


Some  Poor  Folk 

night's  earnings  of  this  family,  exclusive  of 
what  the  father  made  by  barbering,  and 
including  the  mother's  bin-money,  amounted 
to  £2  2s.  6d.,  to  which  must  be  added  the 
rent  of  the  tent,  and  the  cost  of  the  straw, 
firewood,  and  water  provided  gratis  by  the 
hop-grower.  During  the  fortnight  they  had 
drawn  24-$-.,  so  that  they  were  17^.  6d.  to  the 
good. 

'  Not  much  for  a  family,  is  it  ?  '  asked  the 
goodwife;  but  she  spoke  with  a  cheerful 
laugh,  and  told  her  daughter  to  bring  the 
tea,  which  had  been  infusing  for  some  time. 

A  brown  bowl  and  a  tin  mug  was  all  the 
tea-service  they  had.  The  '  tinny '  was  given 
to  the  three-year-older,  as  he  was  growing 
fractious,  and  the  brown  bowl  was  handed 
to  me.  I  offered  it  to  the  woman,  but  she 
rejected  it  peremptorily.  She  blushed,  indeed, 
and  looked  ill-pleased,  as  if  she  imagined  that 
I  entertained  some  idea  that  she  did  not 
know  how  to  treat  a  guest.  I  drank  the 
whole  bowlful,  and  it  then  went  round ;  the 
woman  first,  then  her  husband,  and  lastly 
the  girl,  who  seemed  to  be  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  her  step-mother. 
58 


Some  Poor  Folk 

When  I  left,  the  man  said  : 

'  I  'd  be  very  glad  to  come  across  you  again 
some  day.' 

The  words  are  not  polished,  but  the  tone 
and  manner  were  courtesy  itself.  They  were 
brave  folk,  that  family  of  hop-pickers  —  brave 
and  courteous. 

II. 

IN  one  of  those  old-fashioned  third-class 
carriages  open  from  end  to  end,  my  sole 
companion  from  Cannon  Street  in  the  11.17 
main-line  Kent  train  was  an  odd-looking 
little  man  with  a  weather-beaten  face  and  a 
twisted  Roman  nose.  There  was  a  compart- 
ment between  us,  but  he  kept  tossing  in- 
articulate remarks  across  it  to  me ;  he  was 
quite  cheerful,  and  apparently  indifferent  as 
to  whether  I  heeded  or  understood.  At  every 
stoppage  he  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window, 
and  hailed  one  or  other  of  the  railway  officials, 
who  all  seemed  to  know  him.  I  changed  at 
Dunton  Green  for  Brasted,  and  he  changed, 
too.  From  the  luggage-van  of  the  train  we 
came  in,  he  received  a  large  deep  basket, 
which  he  placed  upon  a  form  on  the  platform 
59 


Some  Poor  Folk 

directly  opposite  the  compartment  of  the  local 
train  in  which  I  had  taken  a  seat.  Having 
lifted  out  of  the  deep  basket  a  shallow  tray- 
basket,  which  fitted  like  a  lid,  he  proceeded 
to  line  the  latter  with  an  old  Daily  Telegraph. 
Then  from  the  bottom  of  the  deep  basket  he 
took  several  large  brown-paper  bags,  and 
emptied  their  contents  into  his  tray — shrimps 
as  pink  as  coral,  and  as  fresh  as  the  dawn. 
The  tray  filled,  he  replaced  it  within  the  deep 
basket,  disposed  neatly  of  the  overlapping 
newspaper,  and  got  into  the  train  with  his 
stock-in-trade.  I  left  my  compartment  at 
once,  and  went  into  his. 

'  What  price  shrimps  ? '  I  said. 

'  Thrippence  a  pynte,'  he  replied. 

I  gave  him  threepence  for  permission  to 
eat  as  many  as  I  wanted  between  Dunton 
Green  and  Brasted,  a  distance  of  about  two 
and  a  half  miles. 

'  Where  were  they  caught  ? '  I  asked. 

'  Mawgyte.'     (Margate.) 

'  And  where  did  you  buy  them  ?  ' 

'  Billinsgyte.' 

'And   do   you   make  a  living  by   selling 
shrimps  in  the  country?" 
60 


Some  Poor  Folk 

'  I  tries  to.' 

'  I  don't  see  how  it  can  pay  you.  How 
many  have  you  here?' 

'  Four  gallons.' 

'  What  did  you  pay  for  them  ? ' 

'  A  shillin'  a  gallon.' 

'  And  then  there  's  the  train  ?  ' 

'  Yus ;  abart  siving  shillin'  I  lays  hout  on.' 

'  And  you  sell  at  threepence  a  pint  ?  ' 

'  Ho,  well,  you  know,  I  suits  my  pryce  to 
my  custermers.  When  I  goes  to  a  big 
haowse  I  charges  fo'pence ;  and  this  little 
measure  has  yer  see,  theer  's  four  on  'em  to 
the  pynte ;  but  one  's  a  penn'orth,  and  I  sell 
lots  o'  penn'orths.' 

'  Then  I  suppose  you  can  calculate  on 
having  fourpence  a  pint  over  all  ? ' 

'  I  dessay.' 

'  Well,  then,  your  expenses  are  about  seven 
shillings,  you  sell  four  gallons  —  let  me  see, 
thirty-two  pints,  that  is,  at  fourpence,  and 
thirty-two  fourpences  is  barely  eleven  shil- 
lings. Four  shillings  a  day  —  twenty-four 
shillings  a  week?' 

'  Yus ;  abart  it.     And  I  've  seen  the  tyme 
when  I  made  a  quid  a  dye.' 
61 


Some  Poor  Folk 

*  Selling  shrimps  ?  ' 

'  Sellin1  shrimps.  And  naow  I  would  n't 
complyne  of  a  quid  a  week.  It's  just  a 
chawnse.' 

*  People  don't  buy  shrimps  as  they  used 
to  do,  then?' 

'  I  surppose  so ;  but  I  dun'no.  I  know  I 
does  my  best.  Yer  see  me  come  in  at  Can- 
non Street  ?  Well,  I  syve  sixpence  by  comin' 
in  at  Cannon  Street.  If  I  come  in  at  Lon- 
don Bridge  I  'ev  to  pye  fur  my  bawskitt. 
Theer  's  no  squarin'  of  'em  theer ;  sixpence 
yer  'ev  to  pye.  But  at  Cannon  Street  I  give 
'em  an  'andful  o'  shrimps,  and  they  tyke  my 
bawskitt  fur  nothin'.' 

'  I  see.     And  do  you  live  in  London? ' 
'Yus;  I     live     near    the    Elephant    an' 
Cawstle.' 

'  And  sell  shrimps  all  the  year  round  ? ' 
'  Ho  no ;  in  the  winter  I  sells  muffins  an' 
crumpets,  with  a  board  an'  a  green  cloth,  an' 
a  bell  —  yer  know  the  sort.' 

'  Does  it  pay  any  better  than  the  shrimps  ?  ' 

'Abart    it.      Whort   I    ses    is    this:    let 

hevery  man  myke  a  livin'  in  'is  own  wye,  and 

don't  be  too  bloomin'  pertickler  'ow  'e  does 

62 


Some  Poor  Folk 

it.  That 's  squar'  an'  honest,  an'  no  mistyke 
abart  it.  Do  yer  own  do,  an'  don't  you  be 
too  pertickler  'ow  yer  does  it.  Thet  's  whort 
mykes  powperses  —  bein'  too  pertickler.' 

The  shrimp-seller's  advice  was  a  little 
ambiguous,  but  I  am  certain  his  meaning 
was  good.  I  left  the  train  at  Brasted,  and 
he  went  on  to  Westerham  to  rouse  the  sleepy 
echoes  with  his  Cockney  cry,  '  Shrimps,  fresh 
every  dye  !  Shrimps  fresh  to-dye  ! '  His 
shrimps  were  good.  The  few  I  ate  had  a 
delicate  briny  flavour,  and  they  melted  in 
the  mouth  like  a  curd,  or  some  confection 
of  the  foam  of  the  sea. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  on  the 
slope  of  Ide  Hill,  I  halted  beside  a  big  build- 
ing like  a  factory,  standing  close  to  the  road. 
I  found  it  to  be  the  Sandridge  Union,  and  I 
copied  the  following : 

'  Notice  to  vagrants. —  Task  of  work  for 
casual  paupers  who  are  detained  for  more 
than  one  night.  Males :  For  each  day  of 
detention  the  breaking  of  one  ton  of  stone 
shall  be  broken  to  such  size  as  the  Guar- 
dians, having  regard  to  the  nature  thereof, 
may  prescribe;  or  the  picking  of  four 
63 


Some  Poor  Folk 

pounds  of  unbeaten,  or  eight  pounds  of 
beaten,  oakum.  As  regards  females,  for  the 
day  of  detention  the  picking  of  two  pounds 
unbeaten,  or  four  pounds  of  beaten,  oakum ; 
or  nine  hours'  work  in  washing,  scrubbing, 
and  cleaning,  or  needlework.' 

Official  writings  have  always  interested 
me,  and  I  was  still  endeavouring  to  arrive 
at  the  literary  point  of  view  of  the  composer 
of  this  notice,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that 
/  was  a  vagrant.  I  began  immediately  to 
consider  whether  I  should  have  my  oakum 
beaten  or  unbeaten,  or  whether  it  might  not 
be  better  to  have  the  ton  of  stone.  Oakum 
I  knew  nothing  about,  but  stone  —  I  had 
once  broken  stone.  It  was  on  the  low  road 
to  Alloa,  near  Cambus,  that  I  wielded  the 
stone-hammer  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The 
old  man  was  very  dubious  when  I  asked  to 
be  allowed  to  try  my  hand,  and  not  without 
reason,  for  there  is  an  art  in  stone-breaking ; 
and  although  I  followed  the  instructions 
given  as  closely  as  I  could,  my  quarter  of  an 
hour's  hard  labour  ended  with  the  fracture 
of  the  hammer-shaft.  That  was  more  than 
twelve  years  ago,  and  I  remembered  how 
64 


Some  Poor  Folk 

astonished  I  was  when  the  old  man  told  me 
that  he  was  paid  half-a-crown  the  yard  of 
stone,  and  that  able-bodied  men  could  make, 
and  did  make,  sometimes  ten  or  twelve 
pounds  a  month. 

While  these  reflections  were  passing 
through  my  mind,  I  saw  a  young  man  ap- 
proach the  gate  from  the  workhouse.  He 
was  dressed  in  corduroys,  with  brass  buttons 
and  a  soft  felt  hat.  I  hailed  him  as  he 
passed  through  the  gate,  and  asked  if  they 
had  many  casuals.  It  was  some  little  time 
before  he  understood  my  question,  and  in 
making  him  understand  it  I  perceived  that 
his  mind  was  somewhat  alienated. 

'  Oh,  yes,'  he  said  at  last.  '  There  be  a 
lot  of  them  —  twenty  or  thirty  of  a  night.' 

'So  many  as  that?'  I  said. 

'  As  near  as  it  might  be.  I  don't  know 
as  I  know  how  many,  but  there 's  always  a 
lot  of  them.' 

I  asked  him  if  twopence  would  be  of  any 
use  to  him,  and  he  said  very  heartily  that  it 
would. 

'  I  can  buy  some  sugar  or  a  little  tea,'  he 
said. 

5  65 


Some  Poor  Folk 

'  How  can  you  do  that  ?  ' 

*  A  gentleman  brings  us  things.  I  don't 
know  what  he  is ;  he  's  a  sort  of  postman,  if 
so  be  you  understand,  sir.  He  brings  let- 
ters, although  he  has  n't  signed  any  pledge 
or  written  his  name  down,  and  he  brings 
things  for  us  when  we  have  money.  This 
will  get  me  a  pound  of  sugar,  sir.' 

'  Don't  they  give  you  enough  sugar? ' 

'  Well,  not  to  say  enough,  sir.  I  'm  in  the 
old  men's  ward  through  me  taking  fits.  And 
we  have  tea  and  bread  and  butter  for  break- 
fast; in  the  young  men's  ward  they  have 
only  hot  water.' 

'  How  old  are  you  ? ' 

'  I  'm  seventeen ;  my  father  was  an  engine- 
driver,  and  he  was  killed  on  the  railway,  and 
I  lived  with  my  grandfather  from  the  time  I 
was  five.  I  'm  a  bit  of  a  blacksmith ;  my 
grandfather  was  a  blacksmith,  and  a  good 
one,  too,  and  I  came  on  remarkable  well.  I 
could  make  a  clout-nail  and  an  S  hook  and  a 
staple,  when  I  had  to  come  here  because  of 
me  taking  fits.  I  'm  a  very  good  boy  for 
work,  but  I  fell  down  a  well  in  a  fit,  and  my 
grandfather  died,  and  they  brought  me  here.' 
66 


Some  Poor  Folk 

'  Where  did  you  live  ?  ' 

'  In  Seven  Oaks  Weald,  not  far  from  here, 
and  my  grandmother  lives  there  still.  I 
hope  and  trust  I  shall  have  a  holiday  soon. 
I  have  n't  had  a  fit  for  a  month,  and  if  I  keep 
well  I  shall  have  a  holiday.  If  so  be  you 
have  clothes  of  your  own  to  go  away  in  you 
can  have  as  long  a  holiday  as  you  like  ;  but 
if  so  be  you  have  only  the  workhouse  clothes, 
then  you  can  have  only  — ' 

I  forget  how  long  he  said. 

'  Is  your  mother  alive  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  sir,  and  I  have  n't  seen  her  for  three 
years.  She  's  something  in  a  waiting-room 
in  London  —  no,  Southampton  —  she  's  in 
Southampton,  and  I  do  hope  and  trust  to 
see  her  this  summer.  She  is  coming  to  see 
my  grandmother.  But  my  grandfather 's 
dead.  They  said  he  cheated  with  picks,  and 
didn't  steel  them;  but  he  did  n't,  sir — he 
would  n't  do  such  a  thing.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? ' 

*  Instead  of  steeling  the  picks  proper,  they 
said  he  only  cut  a  slot  and  pretended  to; 
but  he  did  n't,  sir,  he  did  n't.' 

I  gave  him  a  shilling,  being  much  pleased 
67 


Some  Poor  Folk 

with  him ;  but  the  effect  on  him  was  distress- 
ing. He  sidled  up  to  me,  laid  his  hand  on 
my  arm,  and  spoke  quite  incoherently.  In 
a  second  or  two  he  calmed  down,  however, 
and  told  me  that  he  would  keep  the  shilling 
until  he  got  his  holiday,  and  buy  something 
for  his  grandmother,  '  as  it  might  be  a  loaf, 
or  sugar,  or  some  matches.' 

When  I  shook  hands  with  him,  he  said  he 
hoped  to  see  me  again,  *  and  I  '11  give  you 
something  —  if  so  be  I  have  it,  sir.' 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  another  workhouse 
inmate  —  an  old  man  this  time  —  came  out 
of  a  field  and  asked  for  tobacco.  I  gave 
him  twopence,  which  he  took,  and  set  off  up 
the  road  at  a  frantic  pace.  Then  two  little 
boys  of  six  or  seven  appeared,  and  two 
women,  one  very  old,  the  other  middle-aged. 
The  elder  had  the  bleached  face  of  a  washer- 
woman ;  toothless  gums,  heavy  underlip,  and 
sunken  eyes,  with  an  unearthly  leer  in  them. 

*  I  'm  a  poor  orphan,'  she  said,  '  and  have 
nobody  to  look  after  me  or  give  me  sugar.' 

The  other  woman  —  the  middle-aged  one 
—  had  coal-black  eyes  that  seemed  about  to 
dance  out  of  her  head,  and  she  carried  in  her 
68 


Some   Poor  Folk 

arms  a  large  doll  in  the  cap  and  long  clothes 
of  a  baby.  She  spoke,  too,  but  it  was  im- 
possible to  make  out  what  she  said,  as  she 
had  no  palate.  She  had  lost  also  half  the 
teeth  on  the  left  side  of  the  upper  jaw,  and 
half  the  teeth  on  the  right  side  of  the  lower 
one.  Those  that  remained  were  very  large, 
and  as  she  opened  her  mouth  wide  in  trying 
to  speak,  the  effect  of  her  whole  appearance 
was  grotesquely  horrible.  She  also  talked 
of  sugar ;  I  made  out  so  much  as  that. 

'Neither  have  I  anybody  to  give  me 
sugar,'  piped  both  the  little  boys. 

I  gave  each  of  the  boys  a  penny,  and  they 
ran  off  at  once  with  a  hurried  '  Thank  you.' 

The  epileptic  youth  had  been  dazzled 
with  the  present  of  a  shilling,  and  so  I  ex- 
perimented with  one  on  each  of  the  women. 
The  older  of  the  two  leered  incredulously, 
studied  the  shilling,  lifted  it  to  her  lips  as  if 
to  bite  it  (forgetting  that  her  teeth  were 
gone),  then  turned  and  scuttled  away  at  the 
top  of  her  speed.  The  middle-aged  woman 
stared  at  the  coin  and  me  alternately,  bobbed 
a  steep  country  curtsey,  and  went  off  slowly 
and  without  a  sound,  rocking  her  doll.  The 
69 


Some  Poor  Folk 

idea  of  happiness,  the  delight  of  life,  seemed 
here  to  have  dwindled  down  with  young  and 
old,  sane  and  insane,  into  a  desire  for  a  little 
more  sugar.  This  is  the  tragic  farce  that 
puzzles,  and  will  perhaps  always  puzzle  :  the 
vicissitudes  and  fate  of  the  paragon  of 
animals. 


70 


AN   IDEAL    SHOEBLACK 

I  THINK  I  could  count  the  number  of 
times  a  shoeblack  has  operated  on  my 
boots.  Yet  men  who  have  had  their  boots 
shoeblacked  almost  every  day  of  their  lives 
have  never  encountered  anything  like  a 
certain  experience  of  mine. 

One  afternoon  I  placed  my  foot  on  the 
box  of  a  particularly  intelligent-looking  shoe- 
black a  little  way  up  a  street  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Strand.  Wishing  if  possible  to 
find  out  what  had  brought  a  man  with  a 
good  forehead  and  a  face  of  some  refine- 
ment so  low  in  the  social  scale,  I  said : 

'  You  look  thoughtful. ' 

'  Not  thoughtful,'  he  replied.  '  Melancholy.' 

'  Melancholy  ! '  I  echoed.  '  Yes ;  yours,  I 
should  imagine,  is  a  melancholy  calling.' 

'You  imagine  rightly,'  said  the  shoeblack. 
*  Melancholy?  I  should  think  so  !  You  may 
say,  now,  that  policemen  are  melancholy. 


An   Ideal   Shoeblack 

Well,  they  have  certainly  a  kind  of  melan- 
choly, for  there  is  no  other  word  that  can 
rightly  apply  to  the  mental  condition  of 
those  knights  of  the  street;  but  wherein 
their  melancholy  differs  from  the  true  melan- 
choly of  three  hundred  years  ago,  it  would 
be  hard  to  say.' 

I  was  astonished,  and,  leaning  forward, 
rested  my  arms  on  my  knee  to  obtain 
a  closer  view  of  this  extraordinary  shoe- 
black. 

'  What  is  the  difference,'  I  asked,  '  between 
the  policeman's  melancholy,  and  the  melan- 
choly of  the  sixteenth  century?' 

<  The  difference,  sir,'  replied  the  shoeblack, 
'  lies  deep  enough,  beyond  a  doubt.  It  may, 
perhaps,  be  found  in  the  fact  that  the  mind 
of  the  modern  man  is  much  more  alert, 
because  more  occupied  about  ways  and 
means  than  the  ancestral  minds  could  have 
been.  Inspector  Bucket,  for  example  —  in 
"Bleak  House,"  sir  —  has  a  brilliant  intellect 
compared  with  Dogberry — "  Much  Ado,"  sir ; 
but  however  excellent  in  the  quality  he  pro- 
fessed Bucket  may  have  been,  he  lacked  the 
gift  of  imagination.  Dogberry,  on  the  other 
72 


An  Ideal  Shoeblack 

hand,  was  of  imagination  all  compact ;  so 
imaginative  was  he  that  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  tediousness  he  found  it  in  his  heart  to 
bestow  on  Leonato,  he  was  able  in  four 
words  to  predict  Sarah  Gamp.' 

'  Sarah  Gamp  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  ' 
'  Yes,  sir,  Sarah  Gamp.  Lord  Tennyson 
was  once  detected  in  the  act  of  divination. 
In  the  "  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  "  occurs  the  line,  "  The  last  great 
Englishman  is  low"  which  a  certain  writer 
has  indicated  as  a  prediction  of  the  greatness 
of  the  late  Lord  Sherbrooke.  That  was  very 
good  prophecy ;  but  it  cannot  be  compared 
with  Dogberry's  far-seeing  vaticination.  "  It 
shall  be  suffigance,"  he  said.  If  in  that 
brief  sentence  Dogberry  does  not  give  a  dis- 
tinct hint  of  the  deathless  Sarah  "  deniging," 
"suppoging,  "  and  using  her  soft  "g  "  gene- 
rally, where  in  profane  literature  is  prophecy 
to  be  found?  You  must  accept  it,  sir, 
without  further  proof,  that  the  absence  of 
imagination  in  the  modern  constable  accounts 
in  a  measure  for  the  inferiority  of  his  melan- 
choly.' 

My  amazement  was  so  great  on  hearing 
73 


An   Ideal   Shoeblack 

these  extraordinary  remarks  from  a  shoe- 
black, that  I  found  myself  without  a  reply  for 
a  second  or  two.  At  last  I  said,  wishing  to 
draw  him  out, '  Policemen  are  too  harassed  to 
be  melancholy,  I  suppose.' 

'  Right,  sir,'  replied  the  shoeblack.  '  Like 
most  people,  they  are  too  busy  to  be  melan- 
choly. The  fruity  melancholy  which  a  man 
trod  out  of  any  profession  or  occupation  long 
ago  was  matured  in  the  cool  grotto  of  his 
brain  to  such  a  crusted  mellowness  as  would 
have  pleased  the  seasoned  palate  of  old 
Burton  himself,  only  by  the  long  leisure  and 
daily  recurring  ease  of  a  time  which  knew 
not  post-cards,  nor  railways,  nor  telegrams ; 
a  time  when  an  editor  was  rarer  than  a 
bishop  is  now,  and  the  printer's  devil  a 
harmless  imp  renowned  for  his  patience. 
Still,  it  may  be  said  that  a  policeman  is 
melancholy,  and  a  postman,  and  a  sandwich- 
man,  and  a  costermonger ;  but  it  is  an  adust 
forbidding  melancholy.  For,  as  I  said  before, 
they  are  too  busy;  leisure  is  impossible  to 
them.  Their  occupations,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  costermonger's,  are  silent,  but 
their  thoughts  are  never  free.  Their  melan- 
74 


An  Ideal  Shoeblack 

choly  is  to  true  melancholy  what  the  crab- 
apple  is  to  the  Newtown  pippin.' 

'Where  now,'  I  asked,  'will  you  find  any- 
thing like  the  old-fashioned  melancholy?' 

*  Why,  sir,'  replied  this  amazing  shoeblack, 
'  if  old  Burton  could  take  a  walk  to-day  along 
Oxford  Street  or  the  Strand,  in  search  of 
melancholy,  he  might  for  a  moment  be 
inclined  to  stop  at  the  policeman ;  he  might 
cast  a  lingering  look  at  the  postman ;  and 
pause  in  doubt  as  there  passed  a  sad  pro- 
cession of  sandwich-men,  who,  having  failed 
to  open  Pistol's  oyster,  the  world,  are  doomed 
to  get  in  between  two  shells  themselves ;  he 
might,  old  Burton  might,  give  a  thought  to 
these.  But,  sir,  he  would  sit  down  on  the 
curb,  or  on  a  window-ledge,  to  study  every 
shoeblack  he  came  across.  "  Here,  at  last," 
he  would  sigh, "  is  something  like  the  melan- 
choly of  my  own  time  — the  melancholy  which 
Fracastorius  knew,  and  which  Aretaus  per- 
ceived to  be  a  perpetual  anguish  of  the  soul." 
And  he  would  be  right.  The  shoeblack  has 
leisure  —  daily,  hourly  leisure.  He  makes  a 
small  but  certain  living.  His  work,  though 
artistic  in  a  low  degree,  requires  no  thought, 
75 


An  Ideal  Shoeblack 

and  the  labour  is  not  excessive ;  brief  periods 
of  idleness  alternate  with  briefer  periods  of 
brisk  polishing.  He  has  no  need  to  solicit 
custom  except  by  a  mechanical  gesture.  As 
far  as  his  occupation  is  concerned,  he  is  a 
living  automaton ;  and  yet  every  boot  planted 
on  his  box  performs  a  miracle,  for  it  sets  in 
operation  not  only  a  pair  of  human  hands 
and  arms,  but  brush-makers,  and  blacking- 
factories,  and  carpenters,  besides  producing 
the  highest  of  all  miracles,  faith  —  faith  in  the 
owner  of  the  boot,  that  his  foot  will  not  be 
stabbed  with  knives  or  scalded  with  vitriol ; 
and  faith  in  the  shoeblack,  that  when  the 
proper  shining  feat  has  been  performed,  a 
penny  will  be  punctually  forthcoming.' 

'  But  this  is  rather  from  the  subject,  you 
know,'  said  I. 

'Well,  it  is,'  he  rejoined.  'But  what  I 
want  to  say  is  this :  the  shoeblack  has 
leisure ;  he  knows  what  on  an  average  he 
must  earn ;  he  has  no  need  to  speculate ;  his 
thought  is  free ;  his  imagination  roams  high 
and  low,  gathering  from  the  stars  and  from 
the  mud  amorphous  fancies  and  half-elabo- 
rated humours  that  develop  into  a  dumb 
melancholy.'  76 


An  Ideal  Shoeblack 

'  Ha  ! '  I  exclaimed .  '  Could  n't  you  make  the 
shoeblack's  melancholy  articulate  ?  Could  n't 
his  dull,  moist  soul  be  dried  and  struck  like 
a  lucifer-match  on  his  own  box  ?  Could  n't 
he  blaze  out  for  an  instant  and  illumine  a 
corner  of  the  universe  with  his  actual  melan- 
choly?' 

Much  struck  with  my  metaphor,  the  shoe- 
black sat  back  on  the  calves  of  his  legs, 
slapped  his  brushes  together,  and  said : 

'Well,  sir,  do  you  recognise  in  this  any- 
thing like  the  shoeblack's  melancholy?  Of 
honest  animals  that  work  for  their  living  by 
having  their  throats  cut  or  their  heads 
knocked  in  for  the  use  of  man,  by  common 
consent  the  pig  is  considered  morally  and 
intellectually  to  be  at  least  below  par.  And 
so  of  human  beings  who  earn  a  livelihood, 
the  lowest  in  the  scale  is  the  shoeblack, 
although  the  dustman  may  be  said  to  run 
him  pretty  close  for  the  last  place.  Yet 
mud  in  which  he  works  is  earth,  and  out  of 
earth  was  made  man.  Man  in  a  wrong  place, 
like  other  matter  so  situated,  may  be  called 
dirt.  The  shoeblack  dislodges  matter  wrongly 
localised,  replacing  it  by  matter  adjusted  to 
77 


An   Ideal  Shoeblack 

its  environment.  Government  is  the  shoe. 
black  of  society.  It  displaces  rogues,  who 
are,  by  this  image,  the  mud  on  the  boots  of 
civilisation,  and,  by  means  of  laws,  keeps  up 
the  polish  to  the  best  of  its  ability.  There 
are  other  shoeblacks  besides  Government. 
The  clergy,  benevolent  institutions,  etc.,  en- 
deavour to  maintain  the  polish.  Marriage  is 
the  block  on  which  the  foot  of  Society  rests, 
and  Education  the  Day  and  Martin  that  is 
rubbed  in  to  the  due  pitch  of  lustre.  Rightly 
considered,  all  business,  all  organisations,  — 
except  societies  for  the  performance  of  three- 
card  tricks  of  every  species,  —  are  simply 
methods  to  remove  dulness  and  substitute 
brightness.  It  matters  not,  then,  whether 
the  penny  be  paid  into  a  horny,  grimy  hand 
or  be  laid  on  a  consecrated  salver  :  the  actual 
shoeblack  performs  a  service,  lower  in  degree, 
but  of  the  same  nature,  as  the  highest  arch- 
bishop. Both  are  servants  —  ministers  —  and 
both  at  the  best  can  only  do  their  duty. 
That  is  something  like  the  shoeblack's 
melancholy,  the  perpetual  anguish  of  the 
soul  in  which  he  sees  everything  through  a 
medium  of  Day  and  Martin.' 
78 


An   Ideal   Shoeblack 

When  the  shoeblack  had  finished  his  dis- 
course, I  noticed  that  both  my  boots,  al- 
though I  had  not  seen  the  brushes  employed 
upon  them,  gleamed  with  a  most  lustrous 
polish.  I  stooped  down  to  examine  them 
more  closely,  and  when  I  raised  my  head  to 
address  the  shoeblack  again,  I  could  see 
him  nowhere.  I  waited  for  several  minutes, 
expecting  his  return,  but  he  and  his  box  and 
brushes  had  vanished  like  spectres.  Deter- 
mined to  seek  out  the  shoeblack  on  a  future 
occasion,  I  looked  up  as  I  turned  into  the 
Strand  to  note  the  street  in  which  our  con- 
versation had  taken  place.  The  name  on 
the  wall  —  Limbo  Street  —  I  had  never  seen 
before,  nor  have  I  seen  it  since ;  for  when  I 
returned  some  days  later  I  could  find  no 
street  at  all  opening  into  that  part  of  the 
Strand. 


79 


ALISON    HEPBURN'S   EXPLOIT 

ON  a  night  in  February,  1880,  a  tall, 
unwomanly  figure,  thickly  veiled,  and 
dressed  in  ill-fitting  black,  sped  from  the 
booking-office  to  the  bookstall,  bought  a 
cheap  edition  of  Byron,  plunged  through  a 
struggling  crowd  of  passengers  and  porters, 
and  sprang  into  a  third-class  carriage,  just 
as  the  guard  blew  his  whistle. 

By  the  time  the  10  p.  m.  train  had  puffed 
out  of  the  Waverley  Station,  Edinburgh,  the 
late  passenger  had  recovered  her  breath  and 
lifted  her  veil.  The  face  was  that  of  a  young 
woman  of  not  more  than  nineteen,  and  was 
remarkable  for  its  dark  eyes,  widely  and 
deeply  set  in  a  broad  low  brow.  The  mouth, 
nose,  and  chin  had  a  crude  uncarved  appear- 
ance, which  the  yellow  light  of  the  carriage 
lamp  did  nothing  to  dispel.  A  small  black 
hat  sat  among  a  loosely  coiled  mass  of  black 
hair.  The  black  silk  gloves  had  been  darned, 
80 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

and  the  black  dress  and  jacket  were  much 
worn  as  well  as  badly  made. 

The  girl  glanced  carelessly  at  the  other 
passengers,  of  whom  there  were  three,  and 
then  began  to  dip  into  Byron.  She  turned 
over  the  pages,  reading  a  line  here  and 
there ;  but  shortly  she  laid  the  book  aside, 
and  gave  herself  up  to  a  furtive  study  of  her 
companions.  Opposite  her  were  two  women, 
with  a  large  hamper  on  the  seat  between 
them.  The  faces  of  these  women  had  the 
raw,  florid  hue  of  the  porter-drinker;  their 
eyes  bulged  and  their  mouths  were  loose. 
Wrapped  in  cloaks  and  shawls,  their  feet 
tucked  up  on  the  seat  and  pressing  either 
side  of  the  hamper,  they  had  settled  them- 
selves in  the  corners  —  for  the  night,  appar- 
ently. They  stared  at  the  girl  out  of  their 
lustreless,  bulging  eyes,  blinked  at  the  lamp, 
dozed  and  stared,  and  blinked  again.  On 
the  same  side  of  the  compartment  as  the 
girl  sat  the  fourth  passenger,  a  sailor,  with  a 
big  brown  beard  on  a  young  face.  He  kept 
clearing  his  throat  and  wetting  his  lips,  as  if 
about  to  speak ;  but  whenever  his  eye  caught 
that  of  one  of  the  others,  he  became  sud- 
6  81 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

denly  interested  in  the  knotting  of  a  hand- 
kerchief which  covered  a  cage  he  had  beside 
him  on  the  seat. 

In  the  sailor  the  girl  took  little  interest ; 
but  the  women  attracted  and  repelled  her. 
They  were  clearly  professional  people  of 
some  kind.  The  girl's  interest  was  expressed 
very  frankly  in  a  rapid  succession  of  glances. 
At  last,  one  of  the  women,  more  amused 
than  annoyed,  smiled  impudently  at  her. 
A  deep  blush  dyed  the  young  woman's  face 
immediately;  she  picked  up  her  book  and 
pressed  back  into  her  corner. 

The  volume  opened  at  '  The  Waltz,'  and 
she  read  the  first  lines : 

'  Muse  of  the  many-twinkling  feet !  whose  charms 
Are  now  extended  up  from  legs  to  arms ; 
Terpsichore  1 — too  long  misdeem'd  a  maid  — 
Reproachful  term  —  bestow'd  but  to  upbraid  — 
Henceforth  in  all  the  bronze  of  brightness  shine, 
The  least  a  vestal  of  the  virgin  Nine. 
Far  be  from  thee  and  thine  the  name  of  prude  ; 
Mock'd,  yet  triumphant ;  sneer'd  at,  unsubdued ; 
Thy  legs  must  move  to  conquer  as  they  fly, 
If  but  thy  coats  are  reasonably  high ; 
Thy  breast,  if  bare  enough,  requires  no  shield ; 
Dance  forth  —  sans  armour  thou  shalt  take  the  field, 
And  own  —  impregnable  to  most  assaults, 
Thy  not  too  lawfully-begotten  waltz.' 
82 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

A  smile  of  scorn  curled  her  lip  as  she  read. 
She  was  thinking  how  strong  it  was,  and  how 
very  superior  to  Tennyson.  Byron  is  still 
the  poet  of  the  'teens,'  and  this  young 
woman  was  a  determined  partisan.  Although 
she  had  read  hardly  any  of  Tennyson,  she 
had  set  up  a  Poet-Laureate  of  straw  against 
which  she  was  constantly  tilting.  She  knew 
Tennyson  had  been  dubbed  'Miss  Alfred,' 
and  she  relished  calling  him  so  with  sarcastic 
emphasis,  and  a  deep  satisfaction,  as  if  she 
had  invented  the  phrase.  She  closed  the 
book  over  her  finger,  and  lay  back  to  enjoy 
the  feeling  of  power  transferred  to  her  senses 
by  the  lines  she  had  read.  To  be  a  rebel, 
to  do  and  say  daring  things  —  that  was  her 
ambition.  And  had  she  not  begun  her  career 
in  a  very  signal  manner  ?  To  run  away  from 
home  at  nineteen,  with  nothing  but  a  copy 
of  Byron  and  some  biscuits  —  not  even  a 
nightgown  in  a  bag  —  and  no  umbrella? 
It  was  to  beat  the  record,  she  thought.  In 
some  future  school  history  of  literature,  ad- 
miring and  envious  girls  should  read  how 
Alison  Hepburn  —  that  was  her  name  —  took 
her  life  into  her  own  hands  in  her  nineteenth 
year.  83 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a  dumpy  roll  of 
manuscript.  Undoing  the  ribbon  with  which 
it  was  tied,  she  glanced  over  the  pages  to  see 
that  they  were  all  there  and  in  their  right 
order ;  she  also  looked  lovingly  at  the  small 
clear  writing,  and  the  old  English  letters  of 
the  title-page  —  'A  Godless  Universe,  and 
other  Poems,'  by  Alison  Hepburn.  It  would 
make  a  sensation,  she  had  no  doubt  of  that. 
There  could  be  no  difficulty.  A  publisher 
would  buy  the  copyright  from  her  for  a  good 
sum,  or  she  would  have  to  wait  for  her  for- 
tune until  the  book  had  been  brought  out. 
She  would  be  quite  satisfied  with  either 
alternative.  Had  she  not  nine  pounds  in 
Scotch  notes  in  her  bosom  ?  She  blushed  a 
little  at  the  fancy  picture  of  herself  setting 
out  to  conquer  the  world,  with  nothing  but 
biscuits-  and  a  copy  of  Byron.  She  really 
could  make  no  claim  to  be  considered  a  wild 
romantic  person,  possessed  as  she  was  of  a 
small  capital  and  a  valuable  manuscript. 
The  blood  mounted  to  her  head,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  security,  which  even  she  perceived  to 
be  extraordinary,  overcame  her.  She  closed 
her  eyes,  and,  broad  awake,  dreamt  for  an 
84 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

hour  of  a  fabulous  income  from  '  A  Godless 
Universe '  ;  of  marriages  with  handsome 
young  noblemen ;  and  of  unexampled  world- 
wide fame.  As  her  brain  cooled,  she  thought : 
'  At  any  rate,  I  won't  fare  any  worse  than 
Campbell;  he  got  half  a  crown  a  line  for 
"The  Pleasures  of  Hope."  That  would 
make  —  I  have  two  thousand  five  hundred 
lines.  Eight  half-crowns  to  a  pound ;  eights 
in  twenty-five  —  three.  That  would  make 
over  three  hundred  pounds.  That  would 
keep  me  for  three  years ;  so  it 's  all  right.' 

She  picked  up  Byron  again,  for  her  spirits 
were  falling  rapidly,  and  selected  a  passage 
in  'Cain,'  which  she  read  with  muttering 
lips. 

'Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality  — 
Souls  who  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in 
His  everlasting  face,  and  tell  him  that 
His  evil  is  not  good.' 

The  impulse  of  these  verses,  if  they  can  be 
called  so,  was  enough,  in  her  overwrought 
condition,  to  send  up  the  mercury.  She  laid 
aside  the  book,  and  sat  erect,  her  head  poised 
defiantly. 

'  Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality.' 
85 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

That 's  what  she  was  doing.  Her  brief 
life  came  before  her,  and  she  seemed  to  look 
down  on  her  past  from  a  high  pinnacle.  It 
was  all  a  mystery.  How  had  she  come  to 
be  born  the  daughter  of  a  small  stationer 
in  a  street  off  Leith  Walk  ?  The  force  that 
was  she  might  have  been  Sappho,  might 
have  been  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  A  little 
dingy  house  with  close,  low-ceilinged  rooms, 
and  a  mixed  odour  of 'the  wood  of  lead- 
pencils  and  the  lamp-black  of  newspapers ; 
the  gray  stone  hill  of  houses  between  Leith 
and  Edinburgh,  the  very  special  haunt  of 
mist  and  east  wind,  and  noisy  all  day  and 
half  the  night  with  cars  and  waggons;  a 
locality  and  condition  upon  which  even 
shabby-genteel  people  looked  down  —  into 
this,  of  all  environments,  she,  Alison  Hep- 
burn, had  been  born.  It  was  injurious  and 
insulting.  And  yet  that  was  n't  half  the 
enormity  of  her  circumstances.  Her  father 
was  a  solemn,  rigid,  Scotch  Puritan,  sincerely 
devout,  she  knew,  upright,  and  of  some 
dignity  of  character;  but  on  that  account 
all  the  more  unworthy  to  be  her  father.  For 
what  had  he  done?  He  had  married  a 
86 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

woman  unfit  to  be  the  mother  of  anybody. 
Her  face  grew  dark  at  this  thought.  Her 
mother  had  been  chosen  by  her  father  be- 
cause of  her  strength  of  mind,  her  managing 
power,  and  her  religious  disposition.  Beauty 
and  temperament  she  had  none.  She  was  ill- 
made,  and  her  bones  were  disproportionately 
small.  '  Visiting  the  iniquity  of  the  fathers 
upon  the  children?  Yes,' she  thought;  'it 
is  iniquitous  in  a  common-looking,  common- 
place man  to  marry  an  ugly,  weak-bodied 
woman.  My  father  believes  that  the  heathen 
will  be  damned,  even  although  they  have 
never  heard  of  the  Gospel.  Well,  then, 
although  he  had  never  heard  of  the  proper 
conditions  of  marriage,  he  deserves  to  be 
damned  for  having  perpetuated  ugliness,  ill- 
shaped  bones,  and  ill-conditioned  blood. 
Oh  !  I  would  give  every  pinch  of  brain  I 
have  to  be  sweet  and  beautiful,  with  rounded, 
warm-tinted  flesh,  drawing  all  men's  eyes  ! 
But  I  shall  make  men  adore  me  for  my 
poetry,  or,  at  least,  for  the  fame  and  money 
my  poetry  shall  bring.' 

Again   she   made   her    calculations,    con- 
cluding this  time  with  the  assurance  that, 
8? 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

even  if  she  got  only  one  hundred  pounds,  the 
price  Alexander  Smith  had  received  for  '  A 
Life  Drama,'  she  would  still  be  able  to  over- 
come the  world.  A  hundred  pounds  would 
give  her  a  year.  In  that  time,  and  in  London, 
she  could  write  a  great  poem ;  and  in  that 
time,  also,  her  fame  would  have  spread,  and 
she  would  receive  a  very  much  larger  sum 
for  her  second  venture. 

'And  if,'  she  thought,  as  her  depression 
deepened  — '  if  the  publisher  will  not  give  me 
anything,  and  I  have  to  wait,  or  if  I  have 
difficulty  in  finding  a  publisher,  I  have  these 
nine  pounds,  which  will  keep  me  easily  for 
three  months,  and  during  that  time  I  can 
get  an  engagement  at  a  theatre.' 

Yes,  of  course,  she  was  forgetting  about 
that,  the  second  string  in  her  bow.  Why 
hadn't  she  brought  her  prize  for  elocution 
with  her?  It  would  be  certain  to  influ- 
ence a  manager.  Then  her  spirits  leapt  up 
again,  and  she  went  over  to  herself  her 
two  best  recitations,  —  Scott's  '  Battle  of 
Flodden '  from  '  Marmion,'  and  Aytoun's 
'  Death  of  Montrose.'  With  these  she  elec- 
trified herself,  and  before  the  excitement 
88 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

caused  by  them  had  passed,  she  fell  into  a 
doze. 

Something  tugging  at  her  dress  wakened 
her.  Opening  her  eyes,  and  remembering  at 
once  where  she  was,  she  was  amazed  to  find 
on  the  seat  beside  her,  and  with  two  paws 
on  her  skirt,  a  white  dog,  long-nosed  and 
woolly,  munching  her  biscuits.  First  of  all, 
she  picked  up  her  manuscript,  fastened  it, 
and  replaced  it  in  her  pocket.  Perhaps  it 
had  been  looked  at  while  she  dozed ;  the  idea 
hurt  her.  She  thought  not,  however ;  for  the 
other  three  passengers  were  all  sound  asleep. 

She  felt  a  little  afraid  of  the  dog,  who  kept 
a  sharp  eye  on  her  while  he  continued  eating 
her  biscuits ;  but  before  she  could  make  up 
her  mind  how  to  deal  with  him,  a  harsh, 
sharp  cry,  very  audible  even Xbove  the  clank- 
ing of  the  train,  went  off  in  {he  compartment : 

'  Heave  away  ! ' 

The  dog,  frightened  out  of  his  wits,  sprang 
on  to  the  hamper,  and  began  to  whine.  Again 
the  shriek  was  heard  louder  and  harsher  than 
before,  and  the  dog  leapt,  yelping,  at  one  of 
the  women,  who  started  up  in  alarm. 

'Oh,'  she  said,  looking  about  the  carriage 
89 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

suspiciously,  'it's  only  you,  is  it?  You 
naughty,  naughty  Lou-lou  ! ' 

The  woman  cuffed  the  dog,  not  very 
severely,  and  then  placed  him  in  the  hamper. 

'  I  hope,'  she  said,  with  her  impudent 
smile,  as  she  fastened  the  lid  securely,  '  the 
dog  did  n't  frighten  you  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  said  Alison,  flushing. " 

'  Heave  away  1 ' 

*  What  can  that  be  ! '  exclaimed  the  woman 
who  had  spoken  already. 

By  this  time  the  commotion  in  the  com- 
partment had  awakened  the  other  woman 
and  the  sailor.  The  latter,  looking  very 
shamefaced,  wetted  his  lips,  and  said : 

*  I  'm  very  sorry,  ladies.     It 's  only  Jugger- 
naut.    I    meant  to   tell  you  that  he  might 
start  paying  out  language ;  but  I  could  n't 
somehow  get  the  anchor  up.     Juggernaut 's 
cut  the  cable,  as  it  were.     I  'm  not  naturally 
backward,  but  just   come   off  a  two   years' 
voyage,  and  wondering  to  see  ladies.     That 's 
all.     Why,  ma  'am,  for  four  months  we  never 
touched  port  ;  and  we  used  to  lower  a  boat 
in  a  calm,  and  pull  round  to  have  a  look 
at  the  figurehead  —  the  Aurora,  a  fine  bust 

90 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

of  a  woman,  but  nothing  like  real  flesh  and 
blood.' 

'  Heave  away  !     Tumble  up  ! ' 

'  He 's  very  angry,'  said  the  sailor,  '  at 
being  kept  in  the  dark  so  long.  I  thought 
he  might  sleep ;  but  the  motion  of  the  train 's 
new  to  him,  as  he  never  was  in  one  before. 
He  'd  better  have  it  out ;  so,  asking  your 
pardon,  here  's  Juggernaut.' 

Whisking  the  handkerchief  from  the  cage, 
the  sailor  displayed  an  Amazon  green  parrot. 

'  I  got  him  in  Rio,  quite  a  youngster,  and 
christened  him  in  Calcutta.  He  christened 
himself,  you  may  say;  for  Juggernaut  was 
the  first  word  he  said.' 

'  Juggernaut !  Now,  Renzo  was  no  sailor. 
The  cook 's  a  blooming  Chinaman  ! '  said  the 
parrot. 

'  He  's  got  a  lot  to  say.  I  think  missy 
had  better  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears,' 
said  the  sailor,  looking  apologetically  at 
Alison. 

The  girl  moved  uneasily,  but  kept  her  eyes 
on  the  parrot,  who  glared  about  with  an  un- 
changing look  of  clownish  surprise  —  the  stage 
surprise  of  the  low  comedian. 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'Damn  .her  eyes!'  went  on  the  parrot. 
'Splice!  Aurora — Auro-ra  !  Beautiful  Jug- 
gernaut !  Keel-haul  the  cook  !  Keel-haul  the 
cook  !  The  cook 's  a  blooming  Chinaman  ! ' 

'  He  's  going  to  say  all  he  knows,'  said  the 
sailor,  looking  again  towards  Alison.  'Wal- 
nuts would  n't  stop  him.' 

Shrieking  maledictions,  the  bird  hopped 
to  the  lowest  bar  in  its  cage.  After  a  few 
moments'  silence,  it  lowered  its  head, 
stretched  out  its  neck,  and,  fixing  Alison 
with  one  of  its  astonished  eyes,  uttered  very 
distinctly  a  string  of  oaths,  scraps  of  prayers, 
and  tags  of  songs.  The  women  laughed, 
and  Alison  hid  her  face  behind  Byron. 

'  I  'm  Juggernaut  —  beautiful  Juggernaut ! 
The  cook  's  a  blooming  Chinaman  ! ' 

Having  wound  up  its  oration  with  these 
words,  the  parrot  resumed  its  night  perch, 
picked  three  feathers  in  slow  succession  from 
one  of  its  wings,  yawned,  and  disposed  itself 
to  sleep. 

'  He  has  what  you  call  a  vocabulary,'  said 
the  sailor,  readjusting  his  handkerchief  about 
the  cage.     '  Where  are    we  ? '  he  added,  as 
the  train  began  to  slacken. 
92 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

Alison  looked  out,  and  saw  empty  rainy 
streets  shining  darkly  in  the  many-shadowed 
lights  of  the  gas-lamps ;  below  the  level  of 
the  railway,  and  also  sloping  above  it,  long 
undulations  and  precipitous  hills  of  houses 
wheeled  past  the  slowing  train. 

'  Why,  it 's  Newcastle  already  ! '  exclaimed 
the  sailor.  '  Well,  good  night,  asking  your 
pardon  for  Juggernaut.' 

Five  minutes  after  the  departure  of  the 
sailor,  the  train  moved  out  of  the  station. 
Alison  thought  they  were  going  back  to  be 
shunted;  but  as  the  speed  increased,  she 
imagined  that  perhaps  there  had  been  some 
mistake. 

*  Am  I  all  right  for  London  ?  '  she  asked. 

'  All  right,'  answered  one  of  the  women. 

'We  seem  to  be  going  back,'  rejoined 
Alison. 

'  We  go  out  of  Newcastle  as  we  go  in,' 
said  the  woman. 

'Couldn't  we  go  right  through?'  asked 
Alison. 

'  How  should  I  know? '  retorted  the  woman, 
tucking  herself  up  in  her  corner  as  her  com- 
panion had  already  done  in  hers. 
93 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

Alison  was  hurt  a  little  by  the  rebuff;  but 
one  thing  pleased  her  —  her  fellow-travellers 
were  not  in  the  least  concerned  and  curious 
about  her.  She  had  been  apprehensive  of 
inquisitive  companions  on  her  journey,  and 
had  meant  to  talk  of  going  to  see  an  aunt 
and  of  luggage  in  the  van.  It  was  now 
evident  that  there  was  nothing  unusual  in 
her  appearance  or  her  mode  of  travelling, 
and  she  took  her  present  experience  as  a 
prophecy  of  exemption  from  molestation  in 
her  enterprise.  Nevertheless,  she  felt  very 
wretched.  The  awkward  sailor,  the  foul- 
mouthed  parrot,  the  two  sordid  women 
grunting  and  snoring  beside  her,  the  cold 
raw  night,  and  the  monotonous  rush  and 
jangle  of  the  train,  oppressed  her  like  a 
nightmare.  The  intolerance  with  which  she 
regarded  everything  that  disturbed  her  in- 
tense self-preoccupation  found  vent  in  scowls 
and  muttered  execrations  :  '  What  a  beastly 
train  !  These  dirty  old  hags  ! '  She  closed 
her  eyes  tightly,  and  endeavoured  to  compel 
her  thoughts  into  the  desired  track ;  but  her 
efforts  were  in  vain,  her  immediate  surround- 
ings having  gradually  filled  her  nerves  as  a 
94 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

coil  of  wire  is  charged  with  electricity.  At 
last  she  had  recourse  to  Byron.  She  read 
here  and  there  feverishly,  and  then  searched 
out  the  passage  in '  Cain  '  that  had  helped  her 
already : 

'  Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality.' 

She  kept  to  that  line ;  she  struck  it  over 
and  over  as  a  piano-tuner  strikes  a  note ; 
she  twisted  and  turned  its  meaning  about 
until  it  said  again  the  thing  she  wanted. 
She  was,  indeed,  daring  to  use  her  immor- 
tality. She  was  immortal  —  not,  she  thought, 
with  a  curl  of  her  lip,  in  the  old  ridiculous 
sense ;  she  carried  her  immortality  in  her 
pocket.  This  that  she  had  written  could  never 
die ;  it  would  go  sounding  on  in  hearts  and 
brains,  echoing  through  the  ages.  Being  an 
immortal,  she  had  a  right  to  behave  at  once 
as  an  immortal ;  therefore  she  freed  herself 
from  parental  control,  and,  a  phrase  she  loved, 
took  her  life  into  her  own  hands.  In  thought 
she  had  been  free  for  years,  and  now  she 
must  have  perfect  freedom.  She  had  done, 
and  was  now  going  to  London  to  do  more 
effectually,  what  she  had  been  sent  into 
95 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

the  world  for :  sent  by  Nature,  by  some- 
thing; certainly  not  by  God  —  oh,  not  by 
God  in  any  understanding  of  the  word. 
Alison  Hepburn  was  rabid  with  Theophobia, 
a  disease  of  young  minds  not  uncommon  in 
countries  where  religious  bigotry  prevails. 
She  was  flying  from  what  was  to  her  a  hateful 
idea  of  God,  represented  by  strict  parents, 
and  by  a  wretched  Sabbath  of  three  long 
services.  She  was  flying  from  John  Knox. 
Of  her  poetry  no  specimen  shall  be  given  ;  it 
was  written,  some  in  blank  verse,  some  in  bal- 
lad measure,  and  some  in  the  manner  of  the 
rhymed  version  of  the  Psalms  used  in  Scotland. 
Between  Newcastle  and  Doncaster,  Alison's 
spirits  fell  far  below  zero.  She  began  to 
realise  how  much  she  was  depending  on  the 
immediate  receipt  of  a  large  sum  for  her 
manuscript,  and  what  a  forlorn  hope  it  was. 
She  saw  that  she  had  been  imagining,  not 
believing,  herself  successful.  She  thought 
for  the  first  time  of  the  consternation  at 
home,  and  for  a  brief  moment  realised  that 
she  cared  a  little  for  her  father  and  mother, 
and  that  they  loved  her.  She  peered  out  of 
the  window,  but  saw  on  the  black  screen  of 
96 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

night  —  what  she  wished  to  forget.  She  re- 
turned to  Byron,  but  the  famous  verse  was 
ineffective : 

'Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality. ' 

It  was  nonsense ;  life  consisted  of  an  hour, 
a  moment  at  a  time.  She  read  the  next  line 
scornfully : 

'  Souls  who  dare  look  the  Omnipotent  tyrant  in.' 

Some  of  her  lines  had  weak  ending,  but 
none  so  weak  as  that.  Besides,  '  It 's  just 
havers,'  she  thought ;  '  because  it  was  only 
when  people  began  to  disbelieve  in  an 
Omnipotent  tyrant  that  they  began  to  be 
cheeky  to  Him.'  Was  the  Venice  butcher's 
wife  omnipotent  ?  No ;  yet  she  had  been 
Byron's  mistress.  Were  her  father  and  mother 
omnipotent  ?  No ;  and  yet — her  head  swam. 

Before  they  arrived  at  Doncaster  her 
travelling  companions,  the  women  with  the 
bulging  eyes,  produced  sandwiches  and 
bottles  of  stout,  and  liberated  their  poodle. 
Alison  ate  some  of  her  biscuits  and  gave 
some  to  the  dog. 

'  You  must  n't  deprive  yourself,'  said  one 
7  97 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

of    the    women,    offering    her    a   sandwich, 
which  she  took. 

'  Won't  you  have  a  drop  of  stout  ? '  asked 
the  other. 

She  swallowed  half  a  tumblerful  eagerly 
It  was  the  first  alcoholic  liquor  she  had  ever 
drunk,  having  been  brought  up  a  total 
abstainer.  She  found  the  taste  nauseous,  but 
the  effect  amazed  her,  and  she  began  to  talk. 

*  I  'm  running  away  from  home,'  she  said, 
with  a  cheerful  smile,  persuading  herself  that 
she  felt  nice  and  comfortable. 

'  We  know  that,  my  dear,'  said  one  of  the 
women. 

'  How  do  you  know  ? '  she  asked,  startled. 

'  Everything  about  you  tells  us.' 

'  Do  girls  often  run  away  from  home  ?  ' 

'  Half  of  them  do.     We  did.' 

'  It 's  quite  common,  then,'  said  Alison, 
with  an  air  of  disgust. 

'And  stupid,'  added  one  of  the  women, 
'  unless  you  're  very  good-looking.  If  I  'd 
stayed  at  home  and  kept  straight,  I  'd  have 
had  a  house  of  my  own  and  a  decent  shop- 
keeper for  a  husband,  and  ease  and  plenty. 
Instead  of  which  — ' 

98 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

'  The  Sisters  Tomboy  with  their  wonderful 
poodle  Lou-lou,'  said  the  other.  '  Have 
some  more  stout.' 

Alison  hesitated,  but  drank  off  another 
half-tumblerful. 

'  Do  you  know,'  she  said,  '  this  is  the  first 
intoxicating  liquor  I  have  ever  tasted?  I 
was  made  to  join  a  Band  of  Hope  when  I  was 
eight,  and  ever  since  I  was  twelve  I  have 
wanted  to  break  the  pledge,  but  couldn't 
think  of  going  into  a  public-house.  Thank 
you  very  much.' 

The  Sisters  Tomboy  grinned  at  each  other 
and  said  nothing. 

'  I  'm  going  on  to  London,'  said  Alison. 

'  We  go  out  at  Doncaster.' 

Alison  stretched  herself  on  the  seat,  feeling 
in  the  humour  for  a  good  talk;  but  while 
she  was  still  considering  how  far  she  might 
consult  the  Sisters  Tomboy  regarding  her 
procedure  in  London,  she  fell  asleep,  and 
so  soundly  that  the  stoppage  at  Doncaster 
failed  to  waken  her,  although  the  shock  of 
the  train  starting  again  did.  She  rubbed 
her  eyes.  The  Sisters  Tomboy  had  gone, 
99 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

and  two  men  were  in  the  carriage.  They 
sat  opposite  each  other,  bent  forward  and 
absorbed  in  conversation.  One  of  them  was 
old  and  heavily  built ;  his  eyes  were  small, 
gray,  and  dull;  he  had  a  dirty-white  beard 
and  moustache;  his  puffed  cheeks  and 
drooping  nose  were  brick- red.  She  noted 
his  silk  hat,  brown  and  rough  with  age,  and 
broken-brimmed;  his  frayed  and  greasy 
clothes,  and  thick  watch-chain  of  brass. 
The  other,  a  younger  man,  was  better 
dressed :  his  silk  hat  was  new  and  glossy ; 
he  had  sparkling  rings  on  his  fingers,  and 
his  watch-chain  seemed  to  be  of  gold.  But 
the  man  himself  was  uglier  even  than  his 
companion.  His  black  eyes,  protruding  and 
bloodshot,  seemed  about  to  blaze  up  and 
burst  out  of  his  head.  His  shaved  chin, 
puckered  like  a  many-eyed  potato,  receded 
among  coarse  black  whiskers ;  his  nose  was 
swollen  and  red,  his  cheeks  blotched,  and 
his  brow  of  a  sickly  white.  This  loathsome 
creature  had  no  voice;  with  swollen  veins 
and  continuous  restrained  gesture  he  emitted 
husky,  staccato  whispers,  to  which  the  other 
replied  in  soft,  oily  tones.  Neither  paid  any 
100 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

heed  to  Alison,  but  she  watched  them,  fasci- 
nated. The  sailor,  with  his  parrot,  belonged 
to  a  world  she  understood  in  some  degree ; 
so  did  the  Sisters  Tomboy;  but  what  were 
these  ?  From  what  rookery  had  these  night- 
birds  issued,  and  on  what  mission  ? 

At  last  the  two  men,  having  settled  the 
point  in  dispute,  lounged  back  into  their 
corners.  The  younger  one  looked  at  him- 
self in  the  window  and  rubbed  his  nose 
fiercely.  Suddenly  remembering,  he  sat  up, 
and  produced  from  behind  him  a  half- bottle 
of  port  wine ;  a  tumbler ;  and  a  white  hand- 
kerchief in  which  were  wrapped  two  sponge- 
cakes. He  filled  the  tumbler,  and  handed 
it  with  one  of  the  cakes  to  his  companion, 
who  drank  off  the  wine  slowly,  but  without 
a  pause.  The  younger  man  took  the  rest  of 
the  wine  ;  then  both  ate  their  sponge-cakes. 
There  was  no  pledging  each  other;  noth- 
ing at  all  was  said  about  what  they  were 
doing;  some  common  object  preoccupied 
them  intensely. 

When  the  sponge-cakes  were  finished,  the 
younger  man  took  from  his  pocket  a  flat 
bottle  containing  whisky.  This  having  been 
101 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

emptied,  the  tumbler  and  both  bottles  were 
flung  out  of  the  window,  and  the  conversa- 
tion resumed.  The  two  men  talked  all  the 
way  to  York,  the  elder  rolling  out  long 
sentences,  soft  and  oily,  the  younger  growing 
huskier  in  his  whispers,  and  less  restrained 
in  gesture.  Alison  could  not  make  out  a 
single  word,  but  she  watched  them,  hardly 
conscious  of  thought  or  feeling.  As  the 
train  stopped  at  York  Station  both  men 
became  silent,  and  the  younger  stared  at 
Alison. 

*  By  God  ! '  she  heard  him  croak  in  the 
lessening  noise  of  the  slowing  train,  '  she 's 
uglier  awake  than  asleep.' 

'So  much  the  better  for  her,'  said  the 
other. 

She  wondered  vaguely  for  a  moment  if 
she  had  been  the  subject  of  their  whole  con- 
versation. But  that  was  impossible,  for  both 
resumed  their  look  of  intense  preoccupation 
the  moment  they  had  uttered  their  rude 
remarks,  and  before  the  train  stopped  they 
jumped  out  and  walked  away  quickly  in  a 
purposeful  manner. 

All  the  way  from  Doncaster  to  York  these 

102 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

men  had  seemed  like  a  hideous  vision,  utterly 
unreal  and  impossible.  At  the  last  moment, 
in  their  entire  loathsomeness  and  brutality, 
they  had  trampled  straight  across  her  heart ; 
and  they  had  done  it  with  the  utmost  indif- 
ference, as  she  herself  in  a  preoccupied  mood 
might  crush  a  worm  visible  in  her  path,  but 
unperceived  by  her  inner  sense.  She  had 
often  told  herself  she  was  plain,  but  nobody 
had  ever  called  her  ugly  before.  She  had 
understood  the  absence  of  comment  —  or 
had  she  not?  Perhaps  people  would  have 
talked  to  her  of  her  appearance  had  .she 
been  only  plain-looking.  Had  she  heard 
the  truth  for  the  first  time?  Was  she  ugly? 

She  began  to  pace  the  compartment, 
impatient  till  the  train  should  start.  There 
was  suspense  in  the  stoppage  —  an  added 
misery.  The  guard,  passing,  saw  her. 

'Twenty  minutes  here,'  he  said,  opening 
the  door. 

'  Oh  ! '  she  exclaimed,  and  got  out. 

She   was  very   stiff  and   very  cold,   and 

walked  about  the  platform  to  warm  herself. 

She  thought  how  comfortable  a  bed  is  —  to 

lie  down  secure,  with  no  concern  for  the 

103 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

morrow,  in  her  father's  house.  She  walked 
more  quickly;  she  ran  as  if  to  escape  her 
thoughts.  She  searched  about  for  a  clock. 
A  few  minutes  to  four  !  How  had  her  father 
and  mother  spent  the  night  ? 

The  platform  was  almost  deserted.  One 
or  two  groups  of  men  in  caps  and  heavy 
overcoats  stood  at  the  doors  of  smoking 
compartments.  Where  had  the  passengers 
gone  to?  To  her  surprise,  never  having 
travelled  at  night  before,  she  saw  that  the 
refreshment- room  was  open.  She  went  in 
and.  drank  some  coffee.  There  were  over  a 
score  of  people  eating  and  drinking  at  the 
bar.  The  rattle  of  cups  and  saucers,  the 
steaming  tea  and  coifee,  the  sharp  orders, 
chatter,  an  occasional  spluttering  laugh,  and 
the  bright  light,  soothed  her,  and  then  made 
her  heart  ache  again.  She  remained  in  the 
refreshment-room  until  a  porter  announced 
that  the  train  was  on  the  point  of  departure. 
In  the  rush,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  get 
into  a  compartment  with  some  cheerful 
people  if  she  could;  but  her  heart  failed 
her  as  she  ran  along  the  platform,  and  saw 
the  others  jumping  in  among  their  snug 
104 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

wraps,  newspapers,  books,  open  bags  —  the 
encampments  of  expert  travellers.  She  got 
into  an  empty  compartment,  probably  —  she 
could  n  't  be  sure  —  the  one  she  had  left ; 
and  from  York  to  Grantham,  from  Grantham 
to  Peterborough,  she  had  it  to  herself. 

Her  dream  was  ended  —  her  mad  folly 
had  run  its  course ;  but  the  train  went  on. 
The  rattling  glass  in  either  end  of  the  com- 
partment reflected  her  ugly,  haggard  face. 
She  felt  as  if  the  universe  were  one  immense 
block  of  adamant,  through  which  the  train 
was  gnawing  and  drilling  a  way  for  itself  like 
a  fierce,  instinctive  worm.  Half  choked,  she 
let  down  one  of  the  sashes,  and  looked  out. 
The  cold  wind  rushed  at  her  throat ;  but  the 
world  was  there  still  —  a  drifting  blackness 
above,  a  rushing  blackness  below,  the  lower 
blackness  branded  blacker  in  spots  and 
stripes  where  trees  and  hedges  clustered 
and  stretched.  She  leaned  out  of  the  window 
until  she  was  chilled  to  the  bone ;  then  she 
raised  the  sash,  and  lay  down  on  the  seat 
with  her  back  to  the  engine. 

'  By  God  !  she  's  uglier  awake  than  asleep.' 

*  So  much  the  better  for  her.' 
105 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

These  words  kept  burning  into  her  brain. 
Plain  she  had  guessed  herself  to  be,  but  with 
wonderful  eyes  and  an  irresistible  expression 
when  she  chose ;  and  then  her  cloud  of  hair, 
on  which  she  could  sit !  She  rose  up,  tore 
off  her  hat,  uncoiled  her  hair,  shook  it  about 
her  shoulders,  and  looked  in  the  window ; 
looked  her  sweetest,  smiled  —  her  teeth  were 
good  —  and  said  soft  nothings  to  an  imaginary 
lover.  She  coiled  and  uncoiled  her  hair, 
pressed  her  face  to  the  window  to  stare  into 
the  depths  of  her  eyes,  started  back  at  arm's 
length  —  to  the  middle  of  the  compartment, 
to  the  opposite  end  —  and  looked  at  her- 
self from  every  point  of  view  and  possible  dis- 
tance. She  was  angular,  pale,  and  her 
features  were  very  irregular ;  but  surely  she 
was  not  ugly  !  She  assured  herself  that,  over 
certain  temperaments,  she  was  bound  to 
exercise  an  irresistible  fascination.  She 
recited,  she  sang,  she  danced;  she  grew 
warm,  her  courage  rose,  and  she  laughed 
aloud.  Hastily  doing  up  her  hair,  and  put- 
ting on  her  hat  again,  she  picked  up  Byron, 
and  sat  down  in  the  middle  of  one  seat  with 
her  feet  on  the  other.  She  read  a  piece  of 
106 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Manfred,'  a  piece  of '  Childe  Harold,'  a  piece 
of '  Don  Juan,'  but  without  pleasure,  without 
a  transference  of  energy.  She  grew  drowsy, 
and  had  to  close  the  book.  Soon,  however, 
as  she  shut  her  eyes  and  tried  to  sleep,  her 
fancy  was  on  the  alert.  She  saw  her  father's 
stern  but  not  unkindly  face ;  and  her  mother's, 
worn  and  deeply  lined,  with  all  the  hardness 
gone  out  of  it.  That  was  unendurable.  She 
sat  up  again.  She  stamped  up  and  down  the 
compartment  to  keep  herself  warm.  She  set 
her  teeth ;  she  grew  dogged.  The  train  was 
going  on ;  she  must  go  on.  She  would  find 
a  publisher ;  she  would  go  on  the  stage ;  she 
would  make  money ;  she  would  grow  famous, 
and  have  men  at  her  feet.  The  blood 
mounted  to  her  head,  and  the  dream  of  suc- 
cess held  her  again,  although  with  no  firm 
grip,  till  the  train  stopped  at  Grantham.  As 
soon  as  it  resumed  its  journey,  the  memory 
of  her  last  travelling  companions  returned. 

'  By  God  !   she 's  uglier  awake  than  asleep.' 

'  So  much  the  better  for  her.' 

All  the  way  to  Peterborough,  her  sense  of 
her  own  lack  of  physical  charm  filled  her  with 
dull  pain.  Why  was  she  not  beautiful,  with 
107 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

rich  blood  and  a  gracious  body?  Why  was 
she  not  as  beautiful  as  she  often  felt  —  as  she 
always  felt  in  the  presence  of  beautiful  things, 
visible  or  heard  :  paintings,  or  sunsets,  or 
music,  or  the  sound  of  waters  ?  Wrath  pos- 
sessed her  again ;  her  father  and  mother,  and 
all  the  unlovely  circumstances  of  her  life,  were 
severally  indicted  and  condemned. 

Day  had  broken  for  some  time  before  she 
took  note  of  it.  Veils  and  scraps  of  mist 
hung  about  the  leafless  woods;  rags  and 
tufts  had  caught  in  the  hedges,  and  widths 
and  stretches  of  it  lay  on  the  fields  like 
immense  webs  wringing  wet,  and  spread  out 
to  bleach.  The  gray  dawn,  labouring  with 
clouds  and  the  stubborn  wintry  night,  got 
into  the  sky  by  stealth.  Her  compartment 
appeared  like  a  world  within  a  world,  lit  by 
the  ghastly  twilight  of  the  yellow  gas-lamp 
and  the  dull  beams  of  morning.  Sick  with 
cold,  hunger,  and  discomfort,  and  exhausted 
by  an  emotional  conflict  of  nearly  eight  hours, 
she  felt  her  spirits,  like  the  yellow  gas-lamp, 
grow  pale  in  the  new  day.  She  suffered 
passively  for  a  time,  till  her  misery  became 
unbearable.  Then  she  let  down  one  of  the 
108 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

sashes,  and  flung  Byron  out  of  the  window. 
The  relief  this  action  brought  was  of  short 
duration;  but  while  she  was  still  fingering 
her  manuscript  in  her  pocket  with  thoughts 
of  tearing  it  up,  the  train  stopped  at  Peter- 
borough. A  countryman  and  some  business 
men  came  into  the  compartment  beside  her. 
They  seemed  to  her  to  bring  with  them  a 
pleasant  odour  of  breakfast,  of  cheerful  par- 
lours, and  warm  kitchens,  where  the  ruddy 
firelight  shone  on  gleaming  dish-covers.  She 
thought  of  breakfast  at  home  —  hot  rolls  and 
the  fragrance  of  coffee  in  the  sitting-room ; 
hot-pressed  newspapers  in  the  shop.  She 
shuddered,  and  shut  her  eyes  tight.  For 
several  minutes  she  sat  quivering  like  a 
creature  bound  and  gagged,  and  in  the  grip 
of  some  torture  engine.  At  last,  quite  worn 
out,  she  fell  into  a  half-doze,  half-swoon, 
which  continued  until  the  ticket-collector 
aroused  her  at  Finsbury  Park. 

'  Is  this  London  ?  '  she  said. 

*  Yes,'  replied  the  collector. 

'  Do  I  get  out  here,  then  ? ' 

'  What  part  of  London  do  you  want  ? ' 

'  Does  the  train  go  on  ?  ' 
109 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Yes ;  to  the  terminus.' 

'  Ah,  yes,  the  terminus.  I  '11  go  to  the 
terminus.' 

In  her  abject  state  the  mere  word  'ter- 
minus '  did  her  good.  Here  was  something 
that  had  an  end.  Probably,  if  the  means 
had  been  to  her  hand  when  she  stepped  out 
of  the  train  at  King's  Cross,  she  would  have 
killed  herself. 

There  were  not  very  many  passengers. 
Two  or  three  of  these  were  met  by  friends, 
and  formed  little  glowing  knots,  with  hearty 
hand-shakings  and  kisses.  Bustle  about 
luggage,  the  getting  into  cabs,  and  the  giv- 
ing of  addresses,  had  never  before  seemed 
to  Alison  significant  of  anything  except  the 
pettiness  of  life.  Now  her  feeling  was  that 
no  possible  detail  of  interest  that  attaches 
one  to  life  can  be  petty.  She  saw  a  well- 
dressed  girl,  not  much  older  than  herself, 
step  into  a  hansom,  and  tip  the  porter  who 
handed  up  her  portmanteau  and  told  the 
driver  where  to  go.  To  possess  luggage  and 
to  drive  to  an  address  was  to  be  acquainted, 
and  to  have  affairs  of  business  or  pleasure. 
She,  Alison  Hepburn,  was  utterly  alone,  the 
no 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

victim  of  a  mad  dream  that  had  swallowed 
her  and  cast  her  up  again,  a  half- digested 
morsel.  Her  soul  would  bear  the  marks  of 
the  eating  acid  forever.  It  was  clear  to  her 
as  she  stood,  forlorn  and  shivering,  on  the 
platform  at  King's  Cross,  that  there  were 
hardly  a  dozen  passable  lines  in  her  whole 
manuscript.  A  crimson  flame  lit  her  face  as 
she  thought  of  her  confident  expectations  a 
few  hours  back  —  if  not  at  the  rate  of  Camp- 
bell's '  Pleasures  of  Hope,'  then  surely  at  the 
rate  of  Smith's  '  Life  Drama  ! '  She  walked 
quickly  down  the  platform,  pulling  her  nine 
greasy  Scotch  notes  out  of  her  bodice ;  but 
she  did  not  leave  the  station. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  dismal  parts  of 
London  on  which  she  looked  out — the 
junction  of  Euston  Road,  Gray's  Inn  Road, 
Pentonville  Road,  and  York  Road  —  and 
there  was  a  fog.  Two  men  looked  out  with 
her ;  they  were  about  to  separate,  and  they 
spoke  for  a  minute. 

'  Then,  you  '11  have  that  stuff  ready  for  me 
by  half-past  twelve  ? '  said  one,  who  was  tall, 
well  dressed,  and  well  looking,  and  who 
spoke  very  pleasantly. 

in 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'Yes,'  said  the  other,  short,  shabby, 
husky ;  '  between  that  and  one.' 

'  Oh,  I  must  have  it  by  one.  You  must 
bring  it  to  me  not  later  than  twelve-fifty.1 

'  That 's  impossible,'  said  the  other  dog- 
gedly. '  Send  or  come  at  half-past  twelve. 
If  it 's  ready  then,  you  '11  have  it.  If  not,  you 
or  your  messenger  must  wait.' 

'  Where  will  you  be  ? ' 

'  I  '11  be  in  the  Manuscript  Room.' 

'  Very  well.' 

« What  a  beastly  fog ! ' 

'  I  always  like  a  fog,'  said  the  well-dressed 
man. 

'Manuscript  Room.' 

'Manuscript  Room.' 

She  knew  she  had  overheard  the  talk  of 
two  men  in  some  literary  by-path  —  some 
lion  and  his  jackal.  The  jackal  stepped 
into  a  green  'bus  that  drifted  into  sight  and 
was  gone ;  for  during  the  few  seconds  she 
had  stood  at  the  exit  of  the  station  the  fog 
had  become  a  dense  sooty  cloud.  She  had 
been  aware  of  a  tumult  of  'busses,  cars, 
waggons,  and  cabs,  and  had  noticed  the  four 
cross-roads  when  she  first  looked  out.  Now 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

she  felt  as  if  she  were  occupying  a  hole  in  an 
immense  dripping,  dirty  sponge.  Some  yel- 
low dregs  of  light  were  suspended  in  the  filthy 
moisture,  and  there  was  a  muffled  sound  in 
her  ears.  She  looked  after  the  lion,  who 
had  returned  into  the  station.  He  went  to 
the  cab-rank,  walking  with  such  ease  and 
firmness,  she  thought.  She  had  not  seen 
the  kind  of  man  before  —  not  among  the 
Edinburgh  lawyers,  or  the  actors,  whom  she 
had  watched  at  the  theatre  doors;  not  in 
Princes  Street,  and  not  at  Aberdour  in  the 
summer  holidays.  He  looked  to  her  a  high 
creature  from  a  different  sphere.  She  saw 
his  face  distinctly,  in  spite  of  the  fog,  when 
the  cab  passed  out  of  the  station,  for  she 
bent  forward  and  stared.  He  noticed  her, 
and  looked  back,  with  a  mixed  expression  of 
surprise  and  amusement,  a  touch  of  scorn, 
an  affectation  of  indifference.  It  was  a 
quaint,  wild  face  he  saw ;  pale,  begrimed ; 
glaring,  fiery-eyed,  out  of  a  tangle  of  black 
hair.  She  saw  a  strong  chin,  a  small  firm 
mouth,  a  straight  nose,  and  black-blue  eyes ; 
she  saw  yellow  hair  and  a  smooth  fair  face, 
and  she  hungered  for  them. 
8  113 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

As  soon  as  the  fog  had  engulfed  the  cab, 
she  replaced  seven  of  her  notes  in  her  bosom, 
and  turned  back  into  the  station.  A  porter 
directed  her  to  the  booking-office. 

'  When  is  there  a  train  for  Edinburgh  ?  ' 
she  asked  of  the  clerk. 

'  In  five  minutes.' 

'  Oh  !    Give  me  a  third  single,  then.' 

She  laid  down  the  two  notes  she  had  in 
her  hand,  and  the  clerk  paused  in  the  act  of 
stamping  the  ticket.  He  picked  up  the 
notes,  and  held  them  close  to  the  gas.  She 
wondered  what  was  to  happen.  Was  she  to 
be  arrested  for  something? 

'  These  are  only  worth  nineteen  and  six- 
pence here,'  he  said. 

'  Oh  !  I  '11  give  you  another,  then,'  she 
rejoined,  relieved,  and  not  thinking  what  she 
was  saying. 

'  You  don't  need.  Instead  of  thirty-two 
and  eightpence,  it  will  cost  you  thirty-three 
and  eightpence,  as  it  were.' 

'  I  see,'  she  said. 

When  she  had  received  the  ticket  and  her 
change,  she  walked  about  the  departure 
platform  in  an  aimless  way.  The  porter  who 
114 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

had  shown  her  to  the  booking-office,  having 
heard  her  destination,  said  to  her : 

1  Beg  pardon,  lady,  but  you  '11  miss  your 
train  if  you  don't  mind.' 

'  Oh,  where  is  it  ?  ' 

'  This,'  he  said,  opening  a  third-class  car- 
riage at  her  side. 

She  gave  the  porter  half  a  crown  and  went 
in.  Hardly  had  she  seated  herself,  when  the 
train  started. 

Her  journey  back  to  Edinburgh  was  one 
long  blank  misery,  with  here  and  there  a 
vivid  flash  of  pain.  Worn  out  with  excite- 
ment, and  weak  with  cold  and  lack  of  food 
and  lack  of  sleep,  she  sat  motionless  in 
a  corner  of  the  compartment.  Passengers 
came  and  went  at  the  various  stations. 
Sometimes  she  was  alone,  sometimes  the 
compartment  was  full;  it  was  all  alike  to 
her.  She  slept  no  part  of  the  way,  but  a 
kind  of  trance  held  her,  in  which  she  was 
conscious  only  of  defeat  and  self-contempt, 
except  at  intervals,  when  she  heard  inhuman 
voices  say,  '  By  God  !  she  's  uglier  awake 
than  asleep  ! '  'So  much  the  better  for  her ; ' 
when  she  thought  of  her  father  and  mother ; 
"5 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

when  the  face  of  the  lion  mocked  her  out  of 
the  fog ;  or  when  she  turned  and  stung  her- 
self with  the  taunt  that  her  flight  was  a  piece 
of  mad  folly,  because  she  was  weak  and  ugly 
—  beauty  and  strength  would  have  gone  on 
undismayed.  Her  mind  had  been  so  fully 
occupied,  and  her  thoughts  had  wandered  so 
far  back  and  so  far  forward  during  the  up- 
journey,  that  on  arriving  at  London  it  had 
seemed  as  if  she  had  been  travelling  for 
weeks.  But  at  the  end  of  the  way  back, 
when  she  heard  one  of  the  passengers  say, 
'Yes,  this  is  Edinburgh,'  she  could  scarcely 
believe  her  ears.  Physically  and  mentally 
exhausted,  for  her  the  hours  and  the  miles 
had  slipped  past  like  minutes  and  footsteps, 
uncounted  and  unnoted. 

She  came  out  at  the  Haymarket  instead 
of  going  on  to  the  Waverley  Station,  because 
the  former  was  further  from  her  home.  She 
had  determined  suddenly  that  her  brother  and 
sister  ought  to  be  asleep  before  she  returned, 
and  it  was  still  nearly  two  hours  to  their  bed- 
time. At  the  Haymarket  Station  she  was 
half  an  hour  from  home,  and  so  that  disposed 
of  a  quarter  of  the  time  she  had  to  wait. 
116 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

She  took  a  seat  on  a  bench  on  the  plat- 
form. Her  mind  was  a  blank  — numb,  like  a 
bloodless  finger.  After  a  few  minutes  she 
went  to  the  refreshment-room,  hardly  know- 
ing what  she  was  doing,  and  drank  some  tea. 
As  she  had  eaten  very  little  for  twenty-four 
hours,  the  tea,  inferior  station  infusion  as  it 
was,  had  a  powerful  effect.  Her  nerves  grew 
tense  at  once ;  she  felt  light-headed,  and 
went  out  into  the  street  like  one  walking 
on  air,  as  the  saying  is.  The  raw  east  wind 
was  grateful  to  her  senses ;  it  smelt  of  home, 
and  carried  also  the  fragrance  of  the  romantic 
dreams  and  high  thoughts  she  had  been  ac- 
customed to  weave  as  she  walked  in  the 
windy  evenings.  Breathing  hard  and  step- 
ping quickly,  she  soon  reached  the  west  end 
of  Princes  Street.  The  mass  of  the  castle 
and  the  castle  rock,  faintly  but  firmly  out- 
lined against  the  night  sky,  like  a  piece  of 
ancient  darkness  that  had  grown  solid  and 
taken  shape,  seemed  about  to  overwhelm 
her.  Her  eye  wavered  along  the  ridge  of 
the  High  Street;  the  tall  dark  houses 
trembled  and  grew  steady;  ghostly  lights 
flickered  up  behind  them  from  shop-windows 
117 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

and  lurked  about  the  shadowy  crown  of 
St.  Giles.  Then  she  remembered  Jenny 
Macintosh  for  the  first  time  during  her 
unfortunate  exploit.  Near  the  top  of  one 
of  these  high  houses  Jenny  Macintosh  lived 
alone  in  one  little  room,  and  three  or  four 
times  a  week,  often  every  night  in  the  week, 
Alison  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  her. 

This  Jenny  Macintosh  was  an  old  woman 
near  her  hundredth  year,  and  belonged  to 
a  type  now  almost  extinct.  Her  stepmother 
had  sent  her  from  home  to  be  a  cowgirl  in 
her  eighth  year.  After  a  number  of  years  in 
the  country  she  had  come  to  Edinburgh  as  a 
domestic  servant,  and  had  in  course  of  time 
married,  borne  children,  and  been  left  a  child- 
less widow.  At  sixty  she  had  had  to  begin 
the  world  over  again.  Tireless  and  honest, 
she  obtained  plenty  of  work  as  a  charwoman, 
and  it  was  in  that  capacity  that  she  became 
associated  with  the  Hepburns.  She  had 
worked  for  Mr.  Hepburn's  mother,  and 
when  he  married  she  stepped  into  the  position 
of  what  is  now  called  a  mother's  help. 
From  her  seventy- fifth  to  her  eighty- 
second  year  she  had  cleaned  several  offices 
118 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

before  nine  every  morning,  and  had  then 
gone  for  the  rest  of  the  day  to  assist  Mrs. 
Hepburn  with  her  children,  always  retaining 
a  room  of  her  own  in  the  High  Street.  In 
her  eighty-second  year  she  was  disabled  by 
an  accident  to  her  arm,  and  inquiries  having 
been  made  about  her  in  hospital,  and  her 
great  age  discovered,  a  small  pension  from 
an  old  bequest  had  been  settled  on  her  for 
the  rest  of  her  life. 

In  the  parish  school  and  in  the  communi- 
cants' class,  Jenny,  although  scarcely  able  to 
read,  had  learned  by  heart  the  Shorter  Cate- 
chism, several  passages  of  Scripture,  and 
the  Psalms  in  the  rhymed  version  used  in 
Scotland.  Thus  equipped,  she  had  faced 
unflinchingly  her  long  hard  battle.  One  of 
her  chief  delights  had  been,  and  still  was,  to 
repeat  the  questions,  or  '  carritches.'  She 
had  employed  them  as  lullabies,  and  had 
found  them  peculiarly  efficacious  in  quieting 
Alison;  and  now  Alison  still  came  to  hear 
her  say  them.  It  was  not  conscious  affec- 
tion that  had  led  Alison  to  call  regularly  on 
her  old  nurse ;  the  visit  to  Jenny,  a  valid 
reason  with  her  parents,  enabled  her  to  go 
119 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

out  every  night  if  she  chose;  there  was 
always  the  walk  through  the  crowded  streets, 
up  Leith  Walk  and  over  the  North  Bridge, 
and  sometimes  she  went  aside  along  Princes 
Street. 

With  the  remembrance  of  Jenny  Macin- 
tosh, Alison  became  at  once,  and  for  the 
first  time,  acutely  sensible  of  what  she  had 
done ;  she  had  cut  all  the  cords  that  bound 
her  to  her  past  life.  That  these  could  be 
reunited  and  the  wound  healed,  she  hoped  — 
she  knew,  indeed;  but  the  severance  had 
taken  place. 

In  a  moment  it  flashed  on  her  that  perhaps 
Jenny  Macintosh  knew  nothing  about  her 
exploit.  She  breathed  a  little  more  freely. 
She  had  paid  her  regular  visit  to  Jenny  the 
night  before  at  eight;  had  reached  home 
again  about  nine ;  had  found  at  half-past 
nine  when  she  went  to  set  the  supper  —  she 
had  planned  it  so  —  that  there  was  no  butter 
in  the  house,  and,  going  out  professedly  to 
buy  some,  had  taken  the  train  to  London. 
Had  she  not  returned  from  Jenny's,  her 
father  or  her  mother  would,  doubtless,  have 
gone  there  at  once ;  as  it  was,  possibly 
120 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

neither  of  them  had  gone.  She  would  begin, 
then,  in  the  High  Street;  or,  rather,  she 
hoped  to  find  that  there  was  no  need  to 
begin  again  with  Jenny  —  at  least,  so  far  as 
Jenny  was  concerned. 

She  found  the  old  charwoman  sitting  as 
usual  in  a  low  arm-chair  beside  the  fire, 
dressed  in  her  gray  wincey  gown  and  blue 
checked  apron,  with  a  white  cap,  or  '  mutch,' 
on  her  head.  She  was  now  a  very  small 
woman.  Her  left  arm,  the  disabled  one, 
rested  on  a  Bible  and  a  Shorter  Catechism 
lying  on  her  lap,  and  with  her  right  hand 
she  kept  polishing  the  arm  of  her  chair.  As 
for  her  face,  it  consisted  of  wrinkles,  a  large 
Roman  nose,  and  sharp  blue  eyes.  The 
furniture  in  her  room  comprised  a  chest  of 
drawers,  a  bed,  a  trunk,  a  shelf  with  dishes, 
a  cupboard,  a  table,  and  three  chairs.  A 
faded  carpet  covered  the  floor.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  picture  to  be  seen, 
and  no  ornament  anywhere.  In  the  centre 
of  the  stone  mantelpiece  stood  a  candlestick; 
at  one  end  was  a  salt-box,  at  the  other  a 
wooden  bowl  containing  some  coppers. 

As  Alison  entered  the  little  room,  she  felt 
121 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

very  safe ;  she  had  come  out  of  a  wild  en- 
chanted land  of  storms  and  spectres  into  an 
accustomed  quiet  place. 

'  Is  that  you,  Elison  ? '  said  Jenny,  looking 
round  with  her  sharp  blue  eyes  that  saw  very 
little. 

'Yes,  Jenny,'  replied  Alison  tranquilly. 
'  How  are  you  to-night  ? ' 

'  Juist  aboot  it.  Yer  faither  was  here  this 
mornin'.  I  could  na  male'  oot  juist  what  he 
wantit.  He  seem't  concerned  aboot  ye,  lassie. 
He  speired  if  ye  aye  cam'  here  still.  What 
for  wad  he  be  thinkin"  ye  gaed  other  gates, 
noo? ' 

'  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,'  said  Alison. 

'  Ye  're  sune  the  nicht,  lassie,'  said  Jenny, 
after  a  pause. 

'  Ay,'  said  Alison.  '  How 's  your  rheuma- 
tism, Jenny  ? ' 

'Juist  aboot  it.  But  I  dinna  compleen. 
It 's  a'  tae  remind  me  that  I  didna  come  here 
tae  bide,  though  I  think  sometimes  the  boat- 
man 's  forgotten  me.  We  '11  hae  the  carritches 
noo.' 

The  old  woman  handed  Alison  the  Shorter 
Catechism. 

122 


Alison   Hepburn's  Exploit 

4  Where  did  we  leave  off  ?  '  asked  Alison. 

*  The  twentieth  carritch  —  the  estate  of 
sin  and  misery.' 

'  "  Who  is  the  Redeemer  of  God's  elect  ?  "  ' 

Jenny  clasped  her  hands,  closed  her  eyes, 
and  gave  the  answer.  She  spoke  correctly, 
except  for  some  vowels ;  very  slowly,  very 
reverently,  and  in  a  kind  of  rhythm,  to  which 
she  kept  time  with  sweeping  inclinations  of 
her  whole  body. 

'  "  The  onnly  Redeemer  of  Goad's  elect  is 
the  Loard  Jesus  Christ,  who,  being  the  Eter- 
nal Son  of  Goad,  became  man,  and  so  was, 
and  continueth  to  be,  Goad  and  man  in  two 
distinct  natures  and  waun  person  for  iver."  ' 

'  "  How  did  Christ,  being  the  Son  of  God, 
become  man?"  ' 

This,  the  twenty-second  '  carritch,'  was  a 
special  favourite  of  Jenny's.  She  became 
excited ;  her  whole  body  trembled,  her  voice 
rose,  and  she  delivered  the  answer  triumph- 
antly in  a  passion  of  belief  and  wonder. 

' "  Christ,  the  Son  of  Goad,  became  man 

by  taking  to  Himself  a   true   body  and   a 

reasonable  soul,  being  conceived  —  by  the 

power  —  of  the  Holy  Ghost  —  in  the  woamb 

123 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

—  of  the  Virgin  Mary  —  and  born  of  her, 
yet  —  without  —  sin  !  "  ' 

Alison  went  on  mechanically : 
'  "  What  offices  doth  Christ  —  "  ' 
'  Bide  a   wee  ! '    cried   Jenny,    still  shak- 
ing with  excitement.     '  Aye  !     Umphumph  ! 
Marvellous  !     How  excellent  in  all  the  earth, 
Loard,  our  Loard,  is  Thy  name  !      Bide  a 
wee  ! '  she  repeated,  when  Alison  was  about 
to   resume.      After   a   minute,  Jenny   said : 
'  That  '11  dae  for  carritches.     Read  the  four- 
teenth o'  John.' 

Alison  took  the  Bible  from  Jenny's  knee, 
and  replaced  the  Catechism. 

'"Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,'"  she 
read.  ' "  Ye  believe  in  God,  believe  also  in 
Me.  In  My  Father's  house  are  many  man- 
sions :  if  it  were  not  so,  I  would  have  told 
you;  for  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you. 
And  if  I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for  you,  I 
will  come  again,  and  receive  you  unto  My- 
self; that  where  I  am,  there  ye  may  be 
also."  ' 

'  Ay  ! '  said  Jenny.  *  That  was  written  for 
me  —  even  for  me.  Ye  needna  read  ony 
mair.' 

124 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Good-night,  then,  Jenny,'  said  Alison. 

'  Gude-nicht.  Ye  '11  be  lookin'  in  the 
morn's  nicht  ?  ' 

'  Maybe.' 

'  If  we  're  spar't.     Gude-nicht.' 

Without  either  kiss  or  clasp  Alison  came 
and  went.  Jenny,  indeed,  would  have  mis- 
understood any  show  of  affection  ;  the  com- 
mon hand-shake  itself  was  employed  by  her 
only  on  very  rare  occasions. 

Mechanically,  Alison  turned  towards  home 
on  leaving  Jenny's.  She  recognised  at  once 
that  she  was  obeying  a  habit,  and  that  she 
would  be  home  sooner  than  she  had  intended 
if  she  went  in  the  direction  her  steps  had 
chosen.  Nevertheless,  she  let  herself  go. 
She  had  come  back  to  the  native  ground 
from  which  she  had  wrenched  herself;  one 
fibre  had  taken  root  again  at  once,  and  the 
others  were  stretching  instinctively  towards 
their  old  grooves.  Yet  when  she  arrived  at 
the  street  in  which  she  lived,  her  first  impulse 
was  to  turn  and  run.  The  light  from  her 
father's  shop  streamed  across  the  dreary  way ; 
the  shop  was  always  open  late,  as  penny 
packets  of  paper  and  envelopes  were  re- 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

quired  by  the  people  in  the  neighbourhood 
till  after  ten  o'clock.  She  saw  the  school- 
bags  hanging  at  the  door,  and  the  tissue- 
paper  chimney  ornaments  in  the  window.  It 
was  this  mean  life  she  had  run  away  from, 
and  to  it  she  was  returning,  a  convicted  fool 
and  coward.  Leaning  against  a  lamp-post, 
she  began  to  defend  herself.  The  long, 
cold,  miserable  railway  journey  was  the  cause 
of  her  defeat.  If  London  were  an  hour 
away,  and  she  could  have  started  in  the 
morning !  But  this  was  no  preparation  for 
what  she  was  about  to  do.  She  would  not 
be  irresolute  now.  Lifting  her  dress,  she 
ran  along  the  street  and  into  the  shop. 

Her  father,  who  was  arranging  some  new 
goods  on  his  shelves,  knew  at  once,  although 
his  back  was  to  the  door,  that  his  daughter 
had  come  back.  He  turned  round  slowly ; 
his  face  was  white,  and  working;  his  large 
dark  eyes  lightened  and  clouded  with  emo- 
tion. 

'Well,  Alison?  '  he  said,  in  a  judicial  tone, 
through  which  a  tremor  shot. 

'  I  Ve  been  very  bad,'  said  Alison  sheepishly. 

Mr.  Hepburn  finished  what  he  had  been 
126 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

about.  Alison  clasped  and  unclasped  her 
hands,  and  then  pulled  off  her  gloves  as  if 
they  had  been  burning  her. 

'  You  had  better  go  to  your  mother,'  said 
Mr.  Hepburn. 

Alison  passed  through  the  shop  into  the 
parlour,  where  her  mother  was  sewing. 

'  Oh  ! '  cried  Mrs.  Hepburn,  rising.  '  Where 
have  you  been?' 

'Nowhere,'  replied  Alison.  'In  a  train. 
I  went  to  London,  and  came  back.' 

'  London ! '  said  Mrs.  Hepburn,  sitting 
again. 

Mrs.  Hepburn  was  older- looking  than  her 
years  —  a  tall,  scraggy  woman,  with  a  sallow 
complexion.  Alison  had  inherited  her  broad 
brow  and  wide,  deep- set  eyes,  but  the  facial 
resemblance  ended  there ;  the  daughter's 
irregular  features  were  in  marked  contrast 
with  Mrs.  Hepburn's  straight  nose  and  large, 
firm  mouth  and  chin. 

The  parlour,  a  small  square  room  with  a 
moderately  high  ceiling,  was  lit  by  a  single 
gas  jet  from  a  chimney  bracket.  On  the 
walls  were  several  illuminated  texts,  and  two 
engravings  —  one  of  the  Royal  Family,  the 
127 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

other  a  bird's-eye  view  of  Edinburgh.  The 
furniture  consisted  of  a  Pembroke  table, 
chairs,  and  a  sofa  of  mahogany  upholstered 
in  horsehair,  a  small  glazed  bookcase,  and  a 
cheap  inlaid  whatnot. 

'  Are  you  tired  ?  You  must  be  tired,'  said 
Mrs.  Hepburn.  '  You  'd  better  go  to  bed.' 

Alison  stood  still,  staring  at  her  mother, 
who  had  resumed  her  sewing. 

'  Where  are  Tom  and  Katey  ? '  she  asked 
at  length. 

*  In  bed.     I  sent  them  sooner  than  usual.' 

'  I  am  tired,'  said  Alison.     '  Good -night.' 

'  Good-night,'  said  her  mother. 

Alison  went  upstairs  to  her  room,  placed 
her  pound  notes  in  a  drawer,  washed  her 
hands  and  face,  undressed  quickly,  and  lay 
down.  She  had  never  in  her  life  before  felt 
so  completely  at  rest ;  and  the  repose  of  her 
mind  was  rather  deepened  than  disturbed  by 
a  vague  wonder. 

Before  she  fell  asleep  her  mother  came  in 
and  lit  the  gas.  She  had  brought  a  tray, 
with  tea  and  bread-and-butter. 

*You  must  be  hungry,  Alison,'  she  said. 
'  Sit  up  and  take  this.' 
128 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

Alison  obeyed.  While  she  ate,  her  mother, 
in  a  nervous  manner,  lifted  and  laid  things 
on  the  mantelshelf  and  the  toilet-table. 
Then  she  made  an  orderly  disposition  of 
the  clothes  which  Alison  had  thrown  off  in  a 
heap,  and  this  actual  employment  restored 
in  a  measure  her  self-control. 

When  Alison  had  finished,  Mrs.  Hepburn 
took  the  tray,  and  said,  with  a  return  of  her 
nervous  manner : 

'Where  did  you  get  the  money,  Alison? ' 

'  It  was  my  own  money,'  said  Alison ;  '  I 
saved  it  from  the  wages  father  gives  me.  It 
took  me  three  years  to  save  it.' 

'I  see,'  rejoined  Mrs.  Hepburn,  trying  to 
hide  her  relief. 

She  tucked  in  the  bed-clothes,  seemed 
about  to  speak  again,  but  said  only  '  Good- 
night.' Then  she  put  out  the  gas,  and 
pulled  open  the  door,  which  had  been  ajar. 
Instead  of  leaving  the  room,  however,  she 
stood  suddenly  stock  still.  Alison  heard 
her  give  up  the  tray,  and  come  back  to  her 
bedside. 

'  Alison,'  she  said,  whispering,  '  were  you 
alone  ? ' 

9  129 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Quite  alone.' 

'  Well,  good-night  again.' 

Mrs.  Hepburn  raised  her  voice,  but  not 
loud  enough  to  prevent  her  daughter  from 
hearing  a  deep  long-drawn  sigh  at  the 
door. 

The  most  prominent  among  the  ideas  that 
came  dimly  before  Alison's  mind  as  she  fell 
asleep  was  a  sense  of  power  acquired  over 
her  father  and  mother  by  her  exploit.  She 
had  expected  to  be  at  their  mercy,  but  found 
herself,  in  a  way,  mistress  of  the  situation. 

In  the  morning  her  mother  advised  her 
not  to  rise  until  her  brother  and  sister  had 
gone  to  school.  She  had  breakfast  in  bed, 
and  then  slept  again  for  two  hours.  At 
eleven  she  rose  and  went  to  the  parlour, 
where  her  father  awaited  her.  Mrs.  Hepburn 
attended  to  the  shop  that  forenoon. 

Alison  blushed  fiery  red  as  she  entered  the 
parlour,  for  on  the  table  lay  her  manuscript. 

< 1  have  been  glancing  through  this,'  said 
Mr.  Hepburn,  lifting  and  dropping  '  A  God- 
less Universe.'  '  I  'm  no  great  judge  of 
poetry,  but  some  of  it  seems  not  badly 
written.  I  think  it 's  nonsense,  of  course, 
130 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

too  nonsensical  to  be  blasphemous.  Was  it 
this  took  you  to  London,  Alison  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

A  subtle  smile  softened  Mr.  Hepburn's 
face  and  flickered  about  the  corners  of  his 
dark  eyes. 

'  You  had  plenty  of  money  with  you,  your 
mother  tells  me.  Why  did  you  come  back?  ' 

Alison  said  nothing. 

'I  believe  it  was  really  at  bottom  some 
affection  for  your  father  and  mother  that 
brought  you  back.  Was  it,  Alison  ?' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  replied  Alison,  conscious  of  an 
attempt  to  appear  more  deeply  stirred  than 
she  was. 

*  Well,  what  do  you  want  to  do  ?  '    asked 
her  father,  an  anxious  look  coming  into  his 
face. 

'  I  want  to  write ;  I  feel  that  I  have  some- 
thing to  say.' 

'How  can  you  have  anything  to  say? 
You  're  only  a  lassie  yet.' 

'  Well,  then,  I  have  a  need  to  say  some- 
thing.' 

*  Yes ;  but  how  are  you  going  to  live  ?    If 
you  leave  the  shop,   I   shall   have  to   hire 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

an  assistant,  and  shall  have  nothing  to  give 
you.' 

'  I  '11  stay  in  the  shop,'  said  Alison, '  though 
I  hate  it.' 

'I  hate  it,  too.  I  may  tell  you,  Alison, 
that  it  was  just  such  restlessness  as  is  now 
appearing  in  you  that  stranded  me  here.  I 
know  how  difficult  it  is  to  learn  from  the 
experience  of  others ;  but  it  is  as  sure  as  you 
are  sitting  there,  that  if  you  don't  stick  to 
the  shop  your  life  will  be  one  of  misery. 
That  I  can  foresee.' 

'  What  did  you  want  to  be,  father  ? '  asked 
Alison,  forgetting  herself  in  the  new  light 
thrown  on  her  father's  character. 

<  I  shall  tell  you  of  my  foolish  days.  My 
father  wished  me  to  be  a  lawyer,  and  I 
studied  law  for  several  years.  When  he 
died,  I  persuaded  my  mother  to  enter  me  for 
the  Church;  then  I  shifted  to  medicine; 
then  I  wished  to  be  a  medical  missionary ; 
but,  instead  of  studying,  I  wasted  my  time 
at  revival  meetings.  I  spent  about  eight 
years  at  the  University  altogether,  eating  up 
my  father's  savings.  My  mother  had  carried 
on  my  father's  business  —  a  very  good 
132 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

stationery  and  fancy  business  in  Princes 
Street  —  but  her  employes  cheated  her,  and 
we  were  bankrupt  before  I  had  acquired 
even  the  rudiments  of  a  profession.  It  was 
then  we  came  here,  and  it  was  then  I  learned 
that  religion  is  more  than  sentiment,  that 
without  works  faith  is  a  mere  prurience,  that 
love  for  God  without  duty  to  God  is  an  illicit 
love.'  Here  Mr.  Hepburn,  whose  speech 
had  grown  fervid,  paused  abruptly.  '  In  the 
circumstances,'  he  said,  resuming,  '  it  is  odd 
that  I  should  be  explaining  myself  to  you. 
I  am  afraid  you  have  a  very  hard  heart, 
Alison.  But  I  shall  never  urge  religion  upon 
you.  Well,  then,  my  lass,  are  you  quite 
prepared  to  go  on  as  before  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Alison,  as  heartily  as  she 
could.  '  Oh,  father  ! '  she  exclaimed,  sud- 
denly understanding,  although  scarcely  feel- 
ing at  all,  how  gentle  he  was  with  her. 

She  had  never  really  had  a  talk  with  her 
father  before.  His  hard  life  had  made  him  out- 
wardly stern,  and  his  children  shunned  him. 

'  I  hope,'  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his 
daughter's  head,  as  h«  left  the  room,  '  this 
will  work  for  good  to  us  all.' 
133 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

It  was  said  and  done  conventionally,  and 
spoilt  entirely  the  effect  of  the  interview. 

When  her  father  had  gone,  Alison  picked 
up  her  manuscript  and  turned  to  her  favourite 
pieces. 

'  I  'm  damned  if  they  are  n't  good,'  she 
said  hotly. 

She  put  some  dozen  pages  in  her  pocket 
and  thrust  the  rest  in  the  fire.  She  then 
went  to  the  bookcase  to  select  a  book,  but 
her  mother  entered  from  the  shop. 

'  Now,  Alison,'  Mrs.  Hepburn  said,  « I 
hope  you  are  going  to  do  what  your  father 
wants.  He  is  very  stern-like.  You  've  not 
been  thwarting  him  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  ' 

'  You  '11  be  wise  not  to.  You  '11  find  it 
impossible  to  live  at  loggerheads  with  your 
father,  his  sense  of  duty  is  so  strong.  If 
you  please  him,  you  may  be  certain  you  are 
doing  what 's  right,  Alison.  Go  into  the  shop 
and  see  if  he  wants  you.  I  must  look  after 
the  dinner.' 

*  Oh  ! '  said  Mr.  Hepburn  when  his  daugh- 
ter appeared.  '  I  forgot  to  say  to  you  to  try 
and  be  more  agreeable  with  your  mother  — 
134 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

more  of  a  help  to  her.  Your  mother  has  a 
very  strong  sense  of  duty,  and  you  may  think 
her  exacting  sometimes,  but  she  will  never 
ask  you  to  do  what  you  can't  or  oughtn't 
to  do.' 

'  A  strong  sense  of  whose  duty  ? '  asked 
Alison.  '  And  what  is  duty  ? ' 

'  These  are  childish  questions,  Alison,'  said 
her  father. 

But  Alison  grinned,  thinking  what  simple, 
grotesque  people  her  father  and  mother  were. 
What  had  duty  to  do  with  shop-keeping,  and 
cooking,  and  the  making  of  beds  ?  All  those 
things,  and  all  other  things,  became  so  utterly 
insignificant  when  she  put  the  question : 
Could  it  ever  have  been  anybody's  duty  to 
bring  into  the  world  such  an  ugly,  ill-condi- 
tioned creature  as  Alison  Hepburn?  She 
picked  up  a  toy  hand-mirror,  and  looked  at 
herself  in  it,  and  then  at  her  father.  Mr. 
Hepburn,  half  divining  something ;  dreadful 
in  her  mind,  left  the  shop  quickly. 

Shortly  after,  Tom  and  Kate  came  home 

from  school  for  dinner.     They  had   clearly 

been  cautioned  about  their  first  meeting  with 

Alison,  for  they  looked  very  conscious  when 

135 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

they  saw  her.  Tom,  a  lanky,  ill-thriven  boy 
of  twelve,  turned  round  as  he  was  about  to 
pass  into  the  parlour,  and  stuck  his  tongue 
in  his  cheek.  Kate,  a  lanky,  ill-thriven  girl 
of  ten,  blushed  and  looked  sideways  at  her 
sister. 

Alison  kept  the  shop  while  the  rest  were 
at  dinner.  She  sold  some  copy-books,  some 
pencils,  some  note-paper,  and  thought  how 
wretched  it  was  to  be  depending  for  a  liveli- 
hood on  such  petty  wants.  How  ineffably 
weak  and  foolish  she  had  been  to  come 
back  !  She  said  nothing  to  Tom  and  Kate 
when  they  passed  through  the  shop  again  on 
their  return  to  school ;  and  they,  quarrelling 
hotly  about  a  piece  of  slate-pencil,  gave  their 
sister  neither  word  nor  look. 

After  dinner  she  read  listlessly  in  several 
books.  In  the  evening  she  visited  Jenny 
Macintosh,  and  walked  along  Princes  Street 
eating  her  heart  out.  She  was  so  utterly 
unequipped  for  the  battle  of  life  that  there 
could  never  be  any  need  for  her  to  choose 
between  shame  and  starvation.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  envied  the  furred  and  scented 
women  she  passed. 

136 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

*  By  God  !  she  's  uglier  awake  than  asleep.' 

'  So  much  the  better  for  her.' 

If  somebody  would  only  put  an  iron  mask 
on  her  and  shut  her  up  in  a  cage  !  If  — 

'  Oh,  Miss  Hepburn  !     How  do  you  do  ? ' 

It  was  James  Williamson,  the  son  of  a 
wholesale  stationer,  with  whom  her  father 
dealt.  The  Williamsons  were  members  of 
the  same  church  as  the  Hepburns.  James, 
a  loutish,  red-haired  lad  of  twenty,  travelled 
for  his  father ;  an  adept  at  business,  he  was 
regarded  by  his  friends  and  by  himself  as 
a  social  failure.  Alison  flushed  when  he 
stopped  her ;  he  and  his  attentions  had  not 
once  crossed  her  memory  during  her  journey. 
She  never  had  thought  of  him  at  all.  He 
had  been  to  her  a  mere  detail  common  to 
the  nuisances  of  business  and  church-going, 
an  odd  creature  who  generally  succeeded  in 
shaking  hands  with  her  on  Sunday  in  a 
bashful,  surprised  way,  turning  up  in  un- 
expected corners  with  his  '  Oh,  Miss  Hep- 
burn !  How  do  you  do  ?  '  It  occurred  to 
her  for  the  first  time  that  this  man  was 
wooing  her,  that  here  was  a  lover !  She 
remembered  in  the  instant  of  shaking  hands 
137 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

how  his  business  visits  were  generally  paid 
in  the  evening  when  her  father  was  at  tea, 
and  she  alone  behind  the  counter ;  and  how 
he  never  would  hear  of  her  summoning  her 
father,  but  stood  looking  at  her  and  trying 
to  talk  until  Mr.  Hepburn  returned  to  the 
shop. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  burst  out 
laughing;  it  was  such  an  odd  sensation. 
Here  was  a  man  who  desired  her,  wanted 
her,  thought  he  needed  her.  She  laughed 
again. 

'  Oh,'  said  young  Williamson,  much  dis- 
concerted, '  I  see  you  're  quite  well !  I 
thought  you  weren't.  Good-bye.' 

'  But  why  did  you  think  I  was  ill  ?  \ asked 
Alison,  becoming  serious. 

*  You  looked  so  white,' 

Alison  said  nothing.  She  was  wondering 
what  attraction  she  could  have  for  this  stupid 
red-headed  fellow. 

'Well,  good-bye,'  he  said. 

'Won't  you  walk  back  with  me?  '  she 
asked. 

James  rubbed  his  hands,  and  stared. 
Then,  with  a  gurgling  laugh,  he  placed  him- 
138 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

self  at  her  side,  and  assumed  the  position  of 
escort  in  a  very  self-conscious  manner. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  several 
minutes. 

'I  say,'  said  James,  after  clearing  his 
throat  repeatedly, '  what  a  good  reciter  you 
are!' 

'  Do  you  think  so  ? ' 

*  Yes,  you   do   it  splendid.     But  you  're 
awfully  clever.' 

'  How  do  you  know  I  'm  clever  ? ' 
'  Everybody  says  you  are.' 
'  Everybody ! ' 
'  In  the  church,  you  know.' 

*  What  else  do  they  say  about  me  ? ' 
James  looked  askance  at  her. 

'  Then,  they  do  say  other  things  about  me. 
Tell  me.' 

'  Well  —  mind  you,  it 's  only  what  they 
say.' 

'Of  course.' 

'  Well,  you  're  conceited  and  stuck-up.' 

'And  what  do  you  think?  ' 

'Me!' 

<Yes.' 

'  Oh,  I  don't  mind  if  you  are.' 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'Do  you  think  me  conceited  and  stuck- 
up?' 

'  I  can't  express  myself.  You  know  I  'm 
not  clever.  It 's  like  this  :  I  would  like  you 
to  be  conceited  and  stuck-up,  but  not  —  with 
me.' 

James,  alarmed  at  what  he  had  said, 
moved  a  little  away,  and  fell  half  a  step 
behind ;  but  Alison  turned  towards  him, 
laughing,  and  he  pulled  himself  together 
immediately. 

'  Do  you  read  much  ?  '  asked  Alison. 

'  I  have  n  ft  time,  and  I  don't  care  for  it.  I 
suppose  you  're  an  awful  reader.' 

'  I  have  n 't  time,  either,  but  I  read  as  much 
as  I  can.' 

'  Shakespeare  and  Scott  and  Carlyle,  and 
all  those  old  buffers,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  I  don't  care  much  for  Scott.  He 's  no 
psychologist.' 

'  Ah ! '  exclaimed  James  admiringly. 
'  Who  's  your  favourite  poet  ? ' 

'  Byron,  I  think.' 

'  Ah  !  Byron  !  Ay.  I  say,  do  you  know 
I  'm  going  into  partnership  in  a  month  ?  ' 

'With  your  father?' 
140 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Yes.  I  '11  have  two  hundred  and  fifty  per 
ann.' 

He  watched  her  closely  out  of  the  tail  of 
his  eyes  to  note  the  effect  of  this  announce- 
ment ;  but  it  was  not  visible,  which  was  dis- 
appointing. If  he  had  no  learning,  he  was 
about  to  have  an  income;  and  that  was 
something  to  set  off  against  the  reading  of 
Byron. 

*  I  suppose  a  man  can  live  on  two  hundred 
and  fifty  a  year?  '  said  Alison. 

'  Rather  !  Why,  a  man  can  marry  on  two 
hundred  and  fifty  a  year  ! ' 

'  Into  misery,'  said  Alison,  looking  him 
square  in  the  face. 

'  Misery  ! '  he  exclaimed,  standing  still 
abruptly,  while  she  half  halted  and  moved 
on  more  slowly.  'But  do  you  know  what 
you're  saying?'  he  cried,  getting  into  line 
again.  '  Plenty  of  people  marry  on  a  hun- 
dred.' 

*  I  don't  call  that  marriage.' 

'  Oh,  you  don't  call  it  marriage  ?  '  he  said, 
not  knowing  whether  to  be  perplexed  or 
amused.  'What  would  you  call  marriage, 
now?  ' 

141 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  I  don't  know.     Are  you  coming  in  ? ' 

They  had  arrived  at  the  shop. 

'  May  I  ? '  he  said  eagerly.  <  Do  you  think 
I  should?' 

'  Father  will  be  glad  to  see  you.' 

'  I  Ve  no  business,  you  know.' 

'  Never  mind.' 

Mr.  Hepburn,  surprised  but  not  ill  pleased, 
shook  hands  cordially,  and  asked  the  young 
man  to  go  into  the  parlour.  There  the  table 
was  set  for  supper,  and  Mrs.  Hepburn  was 
busy  at  the  fire. 

'  This  is  a  surprise  ! '  she  said. 

'  Oh  ! '  said  James.  '  I  was  coming  down, 
at  any  rate,  and  met  Miss  Hepburn  on  the 
way.' 

'  Well,  you  '11  stay  and  have  a  bite  of  sup- 
per now  you  're  here  ? ' 

'  Oh,  thank  you  ! ' 

'  We  're  very  homely  people,  you  know,' 
continued  Mrs.  Hepburn.  '  But  you  won't 
object  to  take  pot- luck?  We  have  no  ser- 
vant, so  we  let  the  kitchen  fire  out  after 
tea,  and  if  there  's  any  supper  to  cook,  do 
it  here.' 

'  And  a  very  good  plan,  too/  said  James, 
142 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

beside  himself  with  delight  at  the  cordiality 
of  his  reception. 

Alison  began  to  assist  her  mother,  but 
Mrs.  Hepburn  declined  her  help. 

'  Show  Mr.  Williamson  the  album,'  she 
said. 

Seated  together  on  the  sofa,  they  looked 
over  the  album,  holding  it  between  them. 
Young  Mr.  Williamson's  eager  interest  in 
every  photograph  of  which  Alison  chose 
to  speak  was  very  marked.  Mrs.  Hepburn 
noticed  it,  and  cast  an  intelligent  glance  at 
the  couple. 

*  Oh,  this  is  yourself,  Miss  Hepburn ! ' 
cried  James,  seizing  the  album,  and  holding 
it  close  to  his  face.  '  It 's  like  you,'  he  con- 
tinued, *  and  yet  it 's  not  like  you.  It  does  n't 
do  you  justice.  It  does  n  't  bring  out  your 
expression,  or  your —  eh  — wonderful  eyes.' 

'  Don't  be  stupid  ! '  said  Alison. 

When  the  album  was  finished,  James 
turned  to  the  bookcase.  A  shelf  of  red  and 
blue  books,  with  heavily-gilt  backs  which  no 
one  could  mistake,  attracted  his  attention. 
He  took  down  one  and  opened  it. 

'  Ah  ! '  he  exclaimed,  with  lifted  eyebrows. 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Your  prizes,  Miss  Hepburn  ! '  He  went 
over  several  of  them  quickly.  '  Arithmetic, 
history,  geography,  English  literature,  elocu- 
tion, French,  general  excellence  —  first  prizes 
in  everything,'  he  said.  'It's  too  terrible. 
I  never  got  a  prize  in  my  life.' 

'  Oh,  that  does  n  't  mean  anything,  or,  if  it 
does,  it  means  the  opposite  of  what  you 
think.  Scott  never  got  a  prize,  nor  Shakes- 
peare, I  should  think.' 

'  No,'  said  James,  perspiring  with  pleasure, 
his  resemblance  to  Scott  and  Shakespeare 
never  having  struck  him  before. 

'  It  was  the  merest  accident  that  I  got  all 
these  prizes.  There  was  nobody  cleverer 
than  me  in  the  school,  or  I  should  n 't  have 
had  them.' 

Apart  from  its  modesty,  which  he  adored, 
this  was,  in  James's  estimation,  a  most  origi- 
nal way  of  looking  at  things. 

'  Nobody  cleverer !  If  there  had  been 
anybody  cleverer  !  Well,  that 's  a  good  one  ! ' 
he  said. 

'  I  mean,'  explained  Alison,  '  that  if  there 
had   been   anybody   at    all    clever    in    the 
school,  I  should  n 't  have  had  them  ;  I  'm  not 
144 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

clever.  Scott  and  Shakespeare  were  n  't  clever. 
Women,  as  a  rule,  are  cleverer  than  men. 
Mrs.  Browning  and  George  Eliot,  for  example, 
were  far  cleverer  than  Scott  and  Shakespeare. 
I  mean,  that  these  two  women  were  given  to 
sitting  down  doggedly  and  acquiring  things, 
whereas  Scott  and  Shakespeare  let  things 
come  as  they  would.  Mrs.  Browning  and 
George  Eliot  hunted  out  their  mental  food  — 
killed  it,  skinned  it,  cooked  it,  ate  it  —  and  it 
was  always  tough  to  them ;  while  Scott  and 
Shakespeare — why,  they  just  drank  it  in 
without  knowing  it.' 

*  Oh,  Mr.  Williamson,'  said  Mrs.  Hepburn, 
'  she  talks  such  nonsense  !  never  mind  her.' 

'Oh,  it's  not  nonsense,  Mrs.  Hepburn,' 
James  retorted.  '  I  never  heard  such  things. 
Why,  it 's  quite  wonderful !  You  ought  to 
have  a  class  in  the  Sunday-school,  Miss 
Hepburn.  And  Byron  —  was  Byron  clever  ? ' 

'  No ;  he  was  a  dunce  all  his  life.' 

James  chuckled  and  spluttered  at  this. 
Then  he  said,  radiant  at  the  idea  of  coming 
out  with  something  critical : 

'  By-the-by,  Miss  Hepburn,  I  thought  you 
did  n't  like  Scott  ?  Now,  you  know,  you 
10  145 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

placed   him    along   with    Shakespeare    just 
now.' 

'  Oh,  yes  !  But  I  know  how  great  he  was, 
although  I  don't  quite  like  him  in  the  mean- 
time. After  awhile  I  '11  like  him  again.  It's 
children  and  old  people  who  read  Scott, 
most,  they  say.' 

Mr.  Hepburn  came  in  from  the  shop,  and 
they  sat  down  to  the  table.  To  the  fried 
potatoes,  which  was  the  usual  supper  twice 
or  thrice  a  week,  Mrs.  Hepburn  had  added 
a  hash  of  the  cold  meat  originally  intended 
for  next  day's  dinner ;  and  there  was  coffee, 
bread-and-butter,  oatcake,  and  raspberry 
jam. 

James  found  everything  very  good  indeed, 
and  chatted  with  Mr.  Hepburn  about  busi- 
ness and  church  matters. 

Immediately  after  supper  Mr.  Hepburn 
rose. 

'  I  have  some  accounts  to  finish,'  he  said. 
'  I  wish  you  would  come  and  help  me,  Annie ' 
—  his  wife's  name. 

'  Let  me  clear  the  table  first.' 

'  No ;  I  '11  do  that,'  said  Alison. 

'  Well,  I  must  go  now,'  said  James. 
146 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Must  you  ? '  queried  Mr.  Hepburn,  in  a 
disappointed  tone. 

'  There  's  no  hurry,  Mr.  Williamson,'  said 
Mrs.  Hepburn  reproachfully. 

'  They  '11  be  wondering  what 's  come  over 
me  at  home.  I  had  no  intention  of  being 
so  late.' 

'In  that  case,  we  won't  press  you,  Mr. 
Williamson,'  said  Mr.  Hepburn. 

James  reached  for  his  hat. 

'Mr.  Williamson's  going  to  help  me  to 
clear  away  the  dishes,'  said  Alison,  with 
a  heightened  colour  and  a  catch  in  her 
voice. 

'  Oh,  of  course,  with  pleasure,'  said  James, 
upsetting  a  coffee-cup. 

'  Alison  ! '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hepburn.  '  For 
shame  !  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?  ' 

'  But  I  want  to,'  said  James. 

'  You  two  old  fogeys  go  away,'  said  Alison, 
with  unusual  briskness,  and  taking  a  liberty 
with  her  father  and  mother,  the  like  of  which 
she  had  never  used  before.  '  Mr.  Williamson 
and  I  '11  manage  all  right.' 

'  Alison,'  said  Mrs.  Hepburn,  '  you  're  for- 
getting yourself  entirely.' 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

But  her  husband  pulled  her  skirt,  and  they 
left  the  parlour  together. 

Two  cups  were  washed  and  dried  in 
silence  — Alison  very  grave,  James  grinning 
from  ear  to  ear. 

'Well,  but,'  stammered  James  at  last, 
resuming  the  conversation  that  had  been 
interrupted  on  entering  the  house,  while  he 
polished  the  third  cup  vigorously,  'if  you 
can't  marry  on  two  hundred  and  fifty  per 
ann.,  the  world  would  begin  to  stop.' 

'  But  what  could  a  husband  and  wife  do 
on  two  hundred  and  fifty  per  ann.,  as  you 
call  it?' 

'  Why,  they  could  have  a  nice  little  house 
and  a  piano  and  a  good  general  servant,  and 
they  could  ask  their  friends  to  little  parties ; 
and  when  they  came  home  from  church- 
meetings  and  soirees  and  things,  there  's  their 
cosy  parlour  all  to  themselves,  a  fine  fire,  and 
a  bit  of  supper  laid.  And  they  could  practise 
the  hymns.  Oh,  you  've  no  idea  how  com- 
fortable it  would  be  ! ' 

'I  see.' 

'Well?' 

'  But  you  could  n't  go  to  a  good  seat  in  the 
148 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

theatre  whenever  you   wanted    to,    or    visit 
London  and  Paris  now  and  again.' 

'No,'  said  James,  in  dull  amazement. 
'No.' 

'  Do  you  go  to  the  theatre  often  ?  ' 

'  Me  !  I  never  was  in  a  theatre  in  my  life. 
Were  you?" 

'  I  only  went  once  for  half  an  hour  —  on 
the  sly,  of  course.  I  saw  the  first  act  of 
"Othello"  —  it  made  me  quite  giddy. 
Then  the  orchestra  began  after  the  curtain 
fell,  and  I  felt  like  to  cry  out  with  anger.  I 
wanted  the  play  to  go  on,  on,  on.  And  I 
came  away.  But  I  mean  to  go  now  openly.' 

'Oh  ! '  said  James  at  a  loss.  '  Of  course,' 
he  went  on  stammering,  '  you  being  such  a 
good  elocutionist ! ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Alison,  draining  a  saucer  into 
the  slop-basin  in  which  she  was  washing  the 
dishes.  '  Would  n't  you  like  to  go  to  the 
theatre?' 

'  Well  —  is  n't  it  wrong  ?  Of  course, 
you  're  not  a  member  of  the  church,  and  — ' 

'  No ;  but  I  can  easily  join  it,  can't  I  ? ' 

'  Oh  ! '  said  James,  twisting  his  face  in  a 
perplexed  grin. 

149 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'Do  you  know  what  I  did  the  other 
night?' 

'No.' 

'  I  went  to  London.' 

'To  London?1 

'  Yes ;  but  I  hear  father  and  mother 
coming.  Don't  say  anything  about  this 
before  them.' 

'  No,  no,  I  won't,'  said  James,  gratified 
by  this  secret  understanding.  'But  you 
must  tell  me  all  about  it.' 

'  So  I  will  some  day.' 

'  Oh,  but  soon  ! ' 

'Well,  to-morrow  night?  Half-past  eight 
on  the  North  Bridge.' 

Alison  remained  in  the  parlour  after  her 
father  and  mother  had  gone  to  bed.  Having 
read  a  little  in  an  anthology  of  verse,  she 
took  from  her  pocket  the  few  pages  of  '  A 
Godless  Universe  '  which  she  had  preserved. 
She  went  over  them  carefully,  and  without 
excitement. 

'  What  paltry  trash  ! '  she  said,  blushing 
deeply. 

The  fire  was  almost  out,  but  she  gathered 
the  embers  together,  and  blew  them  into  a 
150 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

blaze.  Then  she  lit  her  manuscript,  and, 
with  a  sick  smile,  watched  it  burn. 

'  That 's  done,'  she  said,  poking  the  charred 
pieces  of  paper  into  the  glowing  ash.  '  We 
can  practise  the  hymns  ! '  she  muttered,  as 
she  went  upstairs  to  bed. 

Next  morning  she  professed  to  be  too  ill 
to  rise.  She  refused  to  eat  anything,  and 
lay  in  bed  all  day.  When  she  came  into  the 
parlour  at  tea-time,  her  father  and  mother 
looked  very  gloomy ;  but  nothing  was  said 
in  the  presence  of  Tom  and  Kate.  At  half- 
past  seven  she  visited  Jenny  Macintosh,  who 
was  in  a  reminiscent  mood,  and  talked,  now 
to  herself,  now  to  Alison. 

'  Naething  but  taties  and  rye-bread,  lassie, 
and  sometimes  nae  saut  at  a',  it  was  that 
dear.  But  there  was  nae  puir  folk  then: 
a'  body  helped  their  neebour;  an'  beggars 
was  better  aff  than  mony  hard-wrocht  folk 
are  the  noo.  It  was  the  Jubilee  year  that  I 
cam'  to  Embro' —  George  the  Third's  Jubilee. 
Lod,  lassie,  there  was  them,  an  '  I  kent  them, 
that  lived  for  weeks  on  what  they  got  that 
day.  They  had  nae  system  ava,  I  'm 
thinkin' ;  their  richt  haun'  kent  naething 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

aboot  their  left ;  they  gied  in  thae  days  wi' 
baith  nieves.  And  then  I  merrit.  You  're 
gettin'  a  lump  o'  a  lassie,  noo,  Elison.  Hae 
ye  ever  a  jo  ?  But  you  '11  dae  brawly  for  twa 
year  yet.  I  was  auchteen  when  I  merrit. 
Aye  !  then  I  kent  I  was  in  the  warl',  wi'  a 
growin'  fem'ly,  an'  wark  at  ither  hooses 
forbye  my  ain  !  But  he  was  a  guid  man  —  a 
guid  man  was  Macintosh.  Had  it  no  been  for 
the  carritches,  though,  I  wad  niver  hae  warstled 
through.  There  's  an  awfu'  poo'r  o'  help  in 
the  Shorter  Catechism.  We  '11  hae  it  noo.' 

Alison  took  the  Catechism. 

' "  What  offices  doth  Christ  execute  as  our 
Redeemer  ?  "  '  she  asked,  remembering  where 
they  had  left  off  the  night  before. 

'  "  Christ  as  our  Redeemer,"  '  replied 
Jenny  in  a  high-pitched  voice,  swaying  her 
body  to  the  curious,  careful,  childish  rhythm 
in  which  she  delivered  the  answer,  «  "  ex- 
ecuted the  offices  of  a  Prophet,  of  a  Priest, 
and  of  a  King,  both  in  His  estate  of  humilia- 
tion and  exaltation."  ' 

Jenny  said  five  questions,  finishing  up 
triumphantly  with  '  Christ's  exaltation '  —  a 
great  favourite. 

152 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

' "  Christ's  exaltation  consisteth  in  His 
rising  again  from  the  dead  on  the  third  day, 
in  ascending  up  into  heaven,  in  sitting  at  the 
right  hand  of  Goad  the  Father,  and  —  in 
coming  to  judge  the  world  —  at  —  the  —  last 
—  day."  The  last  day  —  the  last  day,'  she  re- 
peated several  times.  '  Noo,  read  the  ninth 
o'  the  Romans.  Begin  —  aye,  begin  at  the 
fourteenth  verse.' 

Alison  turned  up  the  place  in  Jenny's 
Bible,  and  read : 

* "  What  shall  we  say,  then  ?  Is  there  un- 
righteousness with  God  ?  God  forbid.  For 
He  saith  to  Moses,  I  will  have  mercy  on 
whom  I  will  have  mercy,  and  I  will  have 
compassion  on  whom  I  will  have  compassion. 
So  then  it  is  not  of  him  that  willeth,  nor  of 
him  that  runneth,  but  of  God  that  hath  mercy. 
For  the  Scripture  saith  unto  Pharaoh,  Even 
for  this  same  purpose  have  I  raised  thee  up, 
that  I  might  show  My  power  in  thee,  and 
that  My  name  might  be  declared  through- 
out all  the  earth.  Therefore  hath  He  mercy 
on  whom  He  will  have  mercy,  and  whom  He 
will  He  hardeneth." ' 

'Aye,'  interjected  Jenny.  'Bide  a  wee. 
153 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

"  Therefore  hath  He  mercy  on  whom  He  will 
have  mercy,  and  whom  He  will  He  har- 
deneth."  Aye  !  Umphumph  !  Marvellous  ! 
That's  Goad!  Weel?' 

'"Thou  wilt  say  then  unto  Me,"'  con- 
tinued Alison.  ' "  Why  doth  He  yet  find 
fault  ?  For  who  hath  resisted  His  will  ?  Nay, 
but,  O  man,  who  art  thou  that  repliest  against 
God?  Shall  the  thing  formed  say  to  him 
that  formed  it,  Why  hast  thou  made  me 
thus  ?  Hath  not  the  potter  power  over  the 
clay,  of  the  same  lump  to  make  one  vessel 
unto  honour, and  another  unto  dishonour?"  ' 

Alison  paused.  She  heard  a  husky,  re- 
laxed throat  say,  '  By  God,  she 's  uglier 
awake  than  asleep  ! '  and  an  old  slippery 
voice  reply, '  So  much  the  better  for  her.' 

'  Aye  ! '  said  Jenny.  *  Weel,  yes,  ye  may 
juist  stop  there.  That 's  the  teuchest  ane 
that  was  ever  written  in  the  Bible,  or  oot  o'  't, 
lassie.  And  there  cam1  a  Salvationist  the 
ither  day  speirin'  if  I  was  saved  !  A  piece  o' 
damned  impidence  !  What  div  I  ken?  I 
tell't  her  it  was  nane  o'  her  business :  an' 
says  she,  speakin'  far  ben  in  her  coal-scuttle 
bannet,  "  But  it 's  everybody's  business, 
154 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

Missis  Macintosh."  "  We  el,"  says  I,  "  what 's 
iverybody's  business  is  naebody's  business," 
an'  she  smilt  a  kin'  o'  a  weak  smile.  "Gae 
wa',"  says  I;  "we've  naething  tae  dae  wi' 
that;  it's  only  Goad  kens  that."  "But," 
says  she,  "  you  surely  hope  you  won't  go  to 
hell?"  "Why  sud  I  hope  onything  o'  the 
sort,  if  it's  Goad's  wull?"  says  I.  "Oh, 
Missis  Macintosh,"  quo'  she,  "you  must 
surely  be  lookin'  for  some  reward  after  all 
these  toilsome  years?"  "An'  what  for  sud 
I?"  says  I.  "There's  them  that's  been  as 
sair  trauch'lt  as  me,  starvin'  in  the  puirs- 
hoose,  or  begging  their  bread  frae  door  tae 
door  the  noo,  an'  me  sittin'  here  as  crouse 
as  ye  like  wi'  a  pension  an'  naething  tae  dae 
but  twiddle  my  thoombs.  It 's  gey  like  I 
hae  gotten  my  reward  in  this  warl'  a'ready; 
an'  it 's  maybe  juist  because  Goad  kens  what 
I  '11  hae  tae  thole  in  the  neist.  I  ken  my 
ain  ken,"  says  I,  and  sent  her  awa*  wi'  a 
flea  in  her  lug.  Set  them  up,  wi'  their 
tambourines  !  I  'se  warrant  there  's  no  ane 
o'  them  could  say  as  muckle  as  "Man's 
chief  en'."  ' 

'  Well,  good-night,  Jenny.' 
155 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Gude-nicht,  Elison.  You  "11  be  up  by  the 
morn  —  if  we  're  spar't  ? ' 

'  Ay,  Jenny.' 

Although  she  had  ten  minutes  to  come 
and  go  on,  Alison  hurried  to  the  North 
Bridge.  James  was  there  before  her  —  had 
been  for  fully  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

'  Oh  !  Miss  Hepburn  !  How  do  you 
do?' 

'  How  tiresome  you  are  ! '  said  Alison. 
'  Can't  you  say,  "  Good- evening,  Miss  Hep- 
burn," or — "Alison"?' 

'  Can   I  —  may   I  —  call   you  —  Alison  ?  ' 

'  Don't  get  excited.' 

James  chuckled,  enraptured  with  this  con- 
tinuance of  the  familiar  manner  Alison  had 
adopted  the  night  before. 

'  Where  shall  we  go  ?  '  he  said. 

'  Let  us  take  a  walk  along  Princes  Street.' 

Along  Princes  Street  they  went. 

*  You  were  never  in  a  theatre,'  said  Alison. 
'  But  were  you  ever  with  one  of  these  ? ' 

'What?  One  of  what?'  exclaimed  James, 
looking  about  him  distractedly. 

Alison  nodded  her  head  in  the  direction  of 
some  furs  and  feathers  that  passed. 
'56 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  God  forbid  ! '  said  James,  aghast.  '  Why  ! 
Miss  Hepburn ! ' 

'  But  are  n't  you  courting  me  ?  '  said  Ali- 
son. 

'  I  am,'  said  James.     '  I  am.' 

'  And  you  want  to  marry  me  ?  ' 

'  Yes,'  gasped  James. 

'  Well,  then,  have  n't  I  a  right  to  know  if 
you  've  led  a  pure  life  ? ' 

*  Oh  !     I  was  n't  looking  at  it  in  that  light. 
Of  course  you  have,  Miss  —  Alison.     I  Ve 
led  a  very  pure  life,  I  assure  you.' 

'  What  an  awful  cad  you  are  ? '  cried  Ali- 
son, stopping  short,  and  looking  him  up  and 
down  scornfully. 

*  Well  —  I  never  !    You  're  a  most  tantalis- 
ing, fascignating  thing.' 

'  It 's  "  fascinating,  "  '  said  Alison  fiercely. 
'  Fas-cin-at-ing !  And  don't  call  me  a 
"  thing." ' 

'  Well,'  rejoined  James  sheepishly,  '  I  '11 
remember.  Fas-cig  —  Every  one  I  know, 
Alison,  says  "  fascignating  "  —  as  far  as  I  can 
remember,  that  is.' 

She  replied  with  a  look. 

'  Fas-cin-at-ing.  I  '11  remember,'  he  said. 
157 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

They  walked  side  by  side,  but  with  fully 
two  feet  between  for  a  minute. 

'  It 's  —  it 's  like  crossing  the  Rubicon,'  said 
James,  sidling  up  awkwardly.  'I'm  very  sorry 
for  having  offended  you.  I  hope — ' 

'  Oh,  don't  be  stupid,'  said  Alison,  taking 
his  arm. 

'  Ha  ! '  exclaimed  James,  and  chuckled. 
'  And  why  did  you  go  to  London,  then  ? '  he 
asked. 

'  Oh,  just  to  see  it,'  she  answered. 

*  Just  to  see  it?' 

'  Yes  :  I  took  a  run  up  to  have  a  look  at 
the  place.  I  suppose  you  've  often  been  in 
London  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  I  Ve  been  once  or  twice  on  busi- 
ness.' 

*  I  want  to  live  in  London.' 

'  But  you  '11  marry  me  all  the  same,  Alison? ' 
'  You  've  never  asked  me  yet.' 
'  Never  ?     No  !     Well,  will  you  ? ' 
'  Yes.' 

'  And  I  wonder  if  it  could  be  soon  ?  ' 
'  Of  course  it  could.' 

'  Could  we  get  married  next  month,  just  as 
soon  as  I  'm  made  a  partner  ?  ' 
158 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'Yes,  James.' 

James  laughed  a  little  uncomfortably. 

'  Ah  ! '  he  said,  after  a  minute's  silence, 
'  you  must  come  right  away  and  see  my 
father  and  mother.' 

'  I  can't,'  said  Alison ;  '  I  'm  not  dressed. 
Rutyvu  must  come  and  see  my  father  and 
mother.' 

James  kissed  her  quickly  on  the  mouth  as 
they  turned  back  towards  Leith  Walk. 

'  Don't !  you  must  n't !  You  must  never 
do  that ! ' 

It  was  almost  a  scream ;  her  face  glowed 
dusky-red  in  the  dim  lamplight,  and  her 
eyes  glared  on  him. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,'  he  said.  '  I  should  n't 
have  done  it  in  the  street ;  but  nobody 
noticed.' 

'  But  you  must  never  do  it  anywhere  —  till 
we  're  married.' 

'  Not  kiss  you  ! ' 

'No.' 

'  Do  you  love  me,  Alison  ?  '  he  asked,  with 
a  gasp. 

'  Oh,  how  can  you  ask  that  ?    Have  I  not 
promised  to  marry  you  ?  ' 
159 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

'  Yes,  yes.  Well,  then,  and  what  did  you 
think  of  London? ' 

'Oh,  I  never  saw  it  —  just  some  'busses 
and  a  fog.' 

'  How  long  were  you  there  ? ' 

'  About  seven  minutes.  For  a  minute  and 
a  half  I  looked  at  the  'busses  and  the  fog, 
for  the  other  five  and  a  half  minutes  I  walked 
about  the  Great  Northern  Station.' 

'  Well,  I  never  !  What  on  earth  did  you 
do  it  for?' 

'I  was  wearied  and  sick  of  everything, 
and  there  was  no  help  anywhere,  and  no- 
body to  —  Oh,  and  I  could  n't  endure  it 
any  longer.' 

'  Nobody  to  — nobody  to  love  you? ' 

*  How  could  I  tell  ?  You  never  said  any- 
thing but  "  Oh,  Miss  Hepburn,  how  do  you 
do?"  And  I  —  I  did  n't  know  what  I  was 
doing,  I  was  so  desperate.' 

'  Oh,  Alison  !  You  loving  me  all  the  time 
like  that,  and  me  not  knowing  it ! ' 

'  Hush  !  people  are  looking  at  us.' 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hepburn,  genuinely  devout 
and  dutiful  people,  felt  that  their  daughter's 
160 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

marriage  with  young  Williamson  would  open 
a  miraculous  door  of  deliverance.  They  saw 
in  it  God's  hand  preparing  a  means  for 
Alison's  regeneration,  and  also  preparing  a 
path  whereby  they  themselves,  in  their  de- 
clining years,  might  be  led  by  quiet  waters. 

'James  Williamson,'  said  Mr.  Hepburn, 
'is  really  a  religiously- inclined  young  man. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  tinkling  cymbal  about 
him.  He  is  respected  by  everybody  in  the 
church,  and,  young  as  he  is,  I  should  n't  be 
at  all  surprised  to  find  him  appointed  an 
elder  in  a  year  or  two.' 

'  What  I  admire  about  him,'  said  Mrs. 
Hepburn,  'is  his  carrying  his  religion  into 
his  business.  He  is  so  upright  in  all  his 
dealings,  and  no  conceit ;  that 's  what  I  like 
about  him.  Of  course  Alison 's  as  good  as 
he ;  but  nobody  could  have  blamed  him  if 
he  had  gone  where  there  was  money.' 

'  No,'  rejoined  Mr.  Hepburn ;  '  the  great 
matter  is  that  she  will  be  the  wife  of  a 
religious  man,  and  must  soon  be  brought 
into  the  fold.  She  has  been  led,  poor  lassie  ! 
by  strange  ways.' 

*  Yes,'  said  Mrs.  Hepburn.  *  I  should 
u  161 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

think  marriage  '11  knock  the  nonsense  out  of 
her,  and  open  her  eyes  to  her  duty.  It  is 
almost  a  pity  that  her  life  will  not  be  a  little 
harder  —  to  begin  with,  at  least.  With  two 
hundred  and  fifty  a  year  she  will  hardly  ever 
need  to  soil  her  fingers  ! ' 

Mrs.  Hepburn  changed  a  sigh  into  a  cough 
as  she  looked  at  her  own  horny  hands. 

But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williamson  were  not 
particularly  pleased  with  their  son's  choice. 

'Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  all?'  said 
Mr.  Williamson. 

'  I  think,'  said  Mrs.  Williamson,  « that  it 's 
rather  a  pity.  But  there  's  this  to  be  said  for 
James ;  he  has  not  been  led  off  his  feet  by 
a  pretty  face.  There  must  be  something 
attractive  in  her  character.' 

'  I  dare  say.  She  is  pleasant  enough,  too. 
There  's  one  thing :  she 's  been  brought  up 
frugally ;  she  '11  take  care  of  his  money  for 
him.' 

<  And  that 's  something,'  assented  Mrs. 
Williamson,  heartily.  'I  was  always  afraid 
lest  he  should  make  up  with  one  of  those 
Dickson  girls.  And  they  don't  dress  well, 
either ;  they  were  perfect  frights  last  Sunday. 
162 


Alison  Hepburn's  Exploit 

Oh,  James  might  have  done  worse,  I  believe. 
And  let  us  hope  that  it 's  His  guidance.' 

'  She 's  not  a  member,  I  understand  ?  ' 

'  No,  not  yet ;  but  of  course  she  '11  join  the 
church  at  once.' 

'  I  suppose  so.  Hepburn  's  a  decent  fel- 
low. He  's  in  pretty  shallow  water,  though. 
His  wife's  rather  a  hard-mouthed  woman, 
isn't  she?  How  many  other  children  have 
they?' 

'  Only  two.  I  know  what  you  're  think- 
ing :  you  're  afraid  James  may  be  marrying 
a  family.  You  needn't;  I'll  take  care  of 
that.' 


163 


,THE  MEMBER  FOR  GOTHAM 

<  /"*  OOD-MORNING,'  said  the  Member 
V_T  for  Gotham  the  moment  the  inter- 
viewer entered  his  sanctum.  'Whatever 
your  business  may  be,  I  hope  you  will  state 
it  as  briefly  as  possible.  I  am  very  busy 
preparing  a  programme  for  my  Premiership 
in  1900.' 

An  epigrammatic  reply  in  commendation 
of  his  own  brevity  was  on  the  interviewer's 
lips,  but  he  improved  on  it,  brilliant  as  it 
was,  by  putting  his  first  question : 

'  Will  you  allow  me  to  interview  you  ?  ' 

'  There  is  as  yet  no  law  against  interview- 
ing,' said  the  Member  for  Gotham  thought- 
fully, as  he  made  a  memorandum. 

« You  think  there  ought  to  be  ? '  the  inter- 
viewer suggested. 

'  I  don  't  think  about  it,'  said  the  Member 
for  Gotham. 

'  Well,  then,  since  the  subject  is  started,  will 
you  give  me  your  opinion  of  interviewing  ? ' 
164 


The  Member  for  Gotham 

*  Is  it  worth  a  thought  ?     It  is  one  of  the 
recognised    forms    of    advertisement;     the 
interviewer  is  paid  for  his  work ;  and  since 
there  is  no  law  against  it,  as  long  as  two 
parties  are  served  it  will  continue.     Where 
is  the  use  of  having  an  opinion  about  it? 
That  won't  change  it,  or  do  away  with  it.' 

'Where  is  the  use  of  having  an  opinion 
about  anything,  then  ? ' 

'  Quite  so  ! '  said  the  Member  for  Gotham, 
lighting  a  cigarette. 

*  Then,  have  you  no  opinions  ? ' 

'  Humph !  It 's  too  difficult !  Ask  me 
another.' 

'What  do  you  think  of — ' 

'Don't  ask  me  what  I  think.  Ask  me 
something  I  know.' 

'But  that'll  never  do.  That's  not  how 
an  interview  is  conducted.  If  people  only 
said  what  they  knew,  interviewing  would  be 
asphyxiated.  You  must  express  opinions 
whether  you  have  them  or  not ;  you  must 
make  guesses,  hint  scandals ;  you  must  colour 
everything  you  say  with  — ' 

'  I  understand  —  with  falsehood.' 

'  No ;  with  your  individuality.' 
165 


The  Member  for  Gotham 

'The  distinction  escapes  me.' 

'  You  are  not  very  complimentary  to  your- 
self. But  I  must  get  on.  You  wish  me  to 
ask  you  something  you  know.  Now,  what 
do  you  know  ?  ' 

'I  know,'  said  the  Member  for  Gotham, 
'  what  I  mean  to  do  when  I  'm  Premier.' 

'Then,  you  know  that  you  will  be  Premier? ' 

'  It  is  the  only  thing  that  can  be  predicted 
with  certainty.' 

'  Well,  then,  when  you  are  Premier,  what 
will  you  do  with  the  House  of  Commons? 
How  will  you  manage  it  ? ' 

'  You  do  not  seem  to  me  quite  to  under- 
stand your  business.  You  should  put  ques- 
tions hi  detail.  Give  me  a  cue.' 

'  I  see.  How  would  you  do  away  with  the 
present  waste  of  time  in  Parliament  ? ' 

'  I  would  begin  by  raising  the  standard  of 
membership.' 

'  How  would  you  do  that  ? ' 

'I  would  make  Parliament  a  branch  of 
the  Civil  Service.' 

'Again  —  how?' 

'  First  of  all,  no  man  should  be  eligible  for 
election  under  thirty  years  of  age.  Once 
166 


The  Member  for  Gotham 

elected,  he  would  be  allowed  to  remain  in 
Parliament  as  long  as  he  could  find  a  con- 
stituency, and  meet  certain  requirements. ' 

'  Certain  requirements  ? ' 

'  Yes.  Let  me  see,  now.  I  would  estab- 
lish seminaries  of  politics  and  statesmanship 
in  which  intending  M.  P.'s,  having  graduated 
at  a  University,  would  study  for  three  years. 
The  ordinary  Master  of  Arts  degree  would 
do,  but  there  would  be  only  one  degree  in 
Politics  and  Government.  When  a  man  is 
going  to  help  to  govern  the  British  Empire, 
he  should  take  his  degree  in  Statesmanship 
with  first-class  honours.' 

'Do  you  think,  then,  that  competitive 
examination  selects  the  best  men  ? ' 

'  I  do  not ;  but  my  examination  would  not 
be  competitive.  The  actual  competition 
would  take  place,  as  now,  on  the  platform.' 

'  I  understand.  But  how  would  this  plan 
save  time  in  Parliament?  It  is  your  best 
educated  men,  as  education-  goes,  who  talk 
the  most  there.' 

'And  necessarily.  The  rank  and  file 
require  to  have  the  meaning  of  the  various 
measures  driven  into  them  by  debate.  But 
167 


The  Member  for  Gotham 

don't  you  see  that  if  every  man  were  gifted 
with  the  power  of  understanding  a  Bill  inde- 
pendently of  the  exposition  of  others,  there 
would  be  no  need  for  discussion  ? ' 

'  But  is  it  not  the  case  that  many  of  the 
best  educated  men  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons study  very  few  of  the  Bills  ?  ' 

'  That  is  so ;  but  I  have  a  plan  to  meet 
that  difficulty.' 

'What  is  that?' 

'I  would  simply  abolish  debate.  In  the 
House  of  Commons  during  my  Premiership, 
not  a  sound  shall  be  heard  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end,  except  the  tread  of  states- 
men.' 

'  And  a  cough  occasionally.' 

'  Quite  so.' 

'But  how  —  how?' 

'The  Crystal  Palace  shall  be  the  House 
of  Commons  in  my  time.  There  the 
Speaker  and  I  shall  preside,  and  there  the 
members  of  Parliament  shall  write  examina- 
tion-papers on  each  Bill.  There  is  space 
enough  at  Sydenham  for  the  six  hundred 
odd  members  to  sit  at  such  distances  from 
each  other  that  neither  a  whispered  nor  a 
168 


The  Member  for  Gotham 

written  word  could  pass  unobserved.  The 
questions  shall  be  exhaustive,  and  the  Oppo- 
sition shall  examine  the  papers  of  the  party 
in  power,  and  the  party  in  power  the  papers 
of  the  Opposition.' 

*  And  what  would  constitute  a  failure  ?  ' 

'  Anything  short  of  seventy  per  cent.' 

'  And  the  penalty  ?  ' 

'  The  plucked  member  would  be  disabled 
from  voting  for  the  measure  he  had  failed  to 
comprehend.  If  any  man  failed  three  times, 
he  would  be  sent  down  to  his  constituency.' 

'Would  he  go?' 

'  He  would  more  likely  apply  for  the 
Chiltern  Hundreds.  But  if  a  thrice-plucked 
man  had  the  hardihood  to  face  his  constitu- 
ents, and  could  show  such  a  plausible  case 
that  they  were  willing  to  give  him  another 
chance,  he  would  be  allowed  to  keep  his 
seat;  but  on  the  first  failure  after  that,  a 
new  writ  would  be  issued  for  the  borough  he 
represented.' 

'What  an  overwhelming  amount  of  work 
would  be  inflicted  on  members  by  this 
scheme ! ' 

'  Let  me  see,'  said  the  Member  for  Gotham, 
169 


The  Member  for  Gotham 

rubbing  his  nose.  '  I  have  computed  that 
my  system  would  reduce  a  country  squire 
from  sixteen  stone  to  a  living  skeleton  in  six 
months;  and  the  strongest  men,  physically 
and  intellectually,  would  be  killed  off  or  in- 
capacitated, on  an  average,  in  three  years. 
A  Gladstone  might  last  you  some  seven  or 
eight.' 

'  Would  that  not  be  a  wanton  sacrifice?' 
'  I  don't  see  it.  Every  year  two  or  three 
hundred  men  are  sacrificed  in  providing 
coal ;  hundreds  are  offered  up  to  Mammon 
on  railways  and  the  high  seas,  and  three 
millions,  we  are  told,  are  starving  in  order 
that  I  may  smoke  cigarettes,  and  you  waste 
your  time  hearing  me  talk.  Don't  make  any 
mistake.  You  're  a  luxury,  Mr.  Interviewer. 
If  a  House-of-Commons-full  of  men  were  to 
work  themselves  to  death  every  three  years 
in  an  endeavour  at  last  to  govern  the  British 
Empire  rationally,  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
would  simply  be  the  performance  of  a  duty. 
It  would,  besides,  provide  naturally  for  trien- 
nial Parliaments.  If  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry, 
to  the  number  of  six  hundred,  plunged  into 
the  mouth  of  Hell  at  a  wrong  order  in  1854, 
170 


The  Member  for  Gotham 

and  are  ready,  as  we  know  they  are,  in  the 
name  of  duty  to  do  the  same  to-day  to  the 
number  of  six  hundred  hundred,  we  can 
surely  find  a  House  of  Commons  willing  to 
die  in  harness  every  three  years  ! ' 

'  But  is  it  necessary  ? ' 

'  Something 's  necessary,  and  I  'm  going  to 
try  it  when  I  'm  Premier.' 

Having  said  that  with  great  emphasis,  the 
Member  for  Gotham  picked  up  his  pro- 
gramme to  signify  that  the  interview  was 
over,  and  the  interviewer  took  his  leave. 


171 


TALKING  AGAINST  TIME 

THE  world  shall  now  know  under  what 
extraordinary    circumstances    Onesi- 
mus   Iremonger  withdrew  from  the  contest 
in  the  by-election  at  Belminster,  Kent. 

Until  the  moment  of  his  retiral,  he  was  on 
the  best  of  terms  with  his  committee.  Even 
old  Jasper  Snoxell,  the  chairman,  and  the 
wealthiest  and  most  ill-natured  man  in  Bel- 
minster,  had  whispered  to  the  secretary, 
loud  enough  for  Iremonger  to  hear,  that  he 
was,  on  the  whole,  not  altogether  dissatisfied 
with  his  attitude  —  towards  one  or  two 
questions,  at  any  rate.  On  the  eve  of  the 
nomination-day,  a  meeting  of  the  committee, 
at  which  Iremonger  was  present,  lasted  till 
nearly  midnight.  It  was  on  the  point  of 
breaking  up,  when  the  following  letter  was 
handed  to  the  candidate : 

'  DEAR  IREMONGER,  —  Snoxell  will  get  a  letter 
at  the  same  time  as  you  get  this,  or  shortly  after. 
172 


Talking  Against  Time 

He  will  want  to  rush  out  immediately.  Don't 
let  him.  Keep  him  in  the  committee-room  till 
after  twelve,  by  fair  means  or  foul.  Get  him 
into  an  argument.  That 's  the  best  plan.  He 
would  sacrifice  his  chance  of  salvation  any  day 
to  have  the  last  word.  My  happiness,  my  life, 
and  the  happiness  and  life  of  another,  depend  on 
your  keeping  Snoxell  prisoner  till  twelve  o'clock 
has  rung. 

'  Yours  ever, 

'ARTHUR  ARMSTEAD.' 

*  Armstead  ! '  said  Iremonger  to  himself 
'  He  has  come  back,  then,  after  all ! ' 

Armstead  had  bullied  him  at  school,  beaten 
him  at  college,  been  in  and  out  of  Parlia- 
ment twice  before  Iremonger  had  delivered 
his  first  electioneering  speech,  and  had  left 
Britain  in  high  dudgeon  over  something  or 
other  almost  a  year  before  the  date  of  the 
Belminster  by-election.  They  had  always 
been  warm  friends  in  the  remarkable  un- 
sentimental manner  of  the  modern  British 
Damon  and  Pythias.  Iremonger  would  have 
done  anything  for  Armstead,  and  Armstead 
would  have  done  a  good  many  things  for 
Iremonger. 

'  By  the  way,'  said  Iremonger  to  his  com- 
173 


Talking  Against  Time 

mittee,  as  the  old  habit  of  doing  whatever 
Armstead  asked  him  revived  at  once,  '  there 
are  one  or  two  points  which  I  should  like  to 
discuss  very  briefly  before  we  go.' 

The  committee  looked  bored,  and  Snoxell, 
who  prided  himself  on  his  management  of 
affairs,  and  was  certain  that  he  had  omitted 
no  detail,  prepared  to  be  offended.  Before 
Iremonger  could  proceed,  however,  a  letter 
marked  '  Immediate '  was  handed  to  Snoxell. 
As  soon  as  he  had  read  it  he  turned  pale, 
and,  forgetting  his  hat,  made  a  dash  for  the 
door. 

Iremonger  was  subject  to  occasional  fits 
of  vertigo.  That  day  he  had  addressed  three 
meetings  in  the  open  air,  had  spoken  for  an 
hour  and  a  half  in  the  town-hall  at  night, 
and  had  been  with  his  committee  since  ten. 
He  was  now  quite  worn  out.  He  staggered 
and  nearly  fell ;  a  red-hot  poker  seemed  to 
pass  through  his  head ;  the  room  swam  about 
him ;  his  committee  looked  like  creatures  in 
an  aquarium.  Then  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
being  swept  down  by  a  whirlpool,  while  he 
heard  Armstead  crying  for  help  far  out  at 
sea.  He  must  get  up  and  save  him.  Old 
174 


Talking  Against  Time 

Armstead  !  —  who  had  beaten  him  in  every- 
thing. Ha  !  Except  —  he  had  nearly  for- 
gotten that  —  Armstead  had  never  been  able 
to  compete  with  him  in  the  comic  paper  of 
their  college.  Poor  old  Armstead  ! 

Suddenly  he  saw  the  room  as  it  was  —  the 
door  open,  and  Snoxell  in  the  act  of  leaving. 

'  Snoxell ! '  roared  Iremonger. 

The  committee  stared  with  open  mouth. 
To  address  a  chairman,  and,  above  all,  that 
particular  chairman,  without  the  '  Mr. ! ' 
They  had  never  heard  of  such  a  thing. 

'  Come  back,  Snoxell :  I  want  to  talk  to 
you,'  said  Iremonger  at  the  pitch  of  his  voice. 
Some-thing  was  whirring  in  his  brain,  but  he 
felt  now  in  perfect  possession  of  his  faculties, 
and  was  much  charmed  with  himself. 

Livid  and  breathing  hard,  Snoxell  re-en- 
tered the  room. 

'  What 's  the  exact  time  ?  '  he  said  to  the 
secretary,  his  lip  curling  up  and  showing  his 
set  teeth. 

'  Ten  minutes  to  twelve.' 

'Does  the  west  entrance  to  the  station 
keep  open  till  the  express  leaves  ? ' 

'  Always.' 

175 


Talking  Against  Time 

'  And  I  can  go  from  here  to  the  station  in 
two  minutes  ? ' 

'  Easily.' 

'  Now,  Mister  Iremonger.  Sir  to  you  ! ' 
cried  Snoxell,  opening  and  shutting  his  teeth 
with  every  word.  He  held  his  watch  in  one 
hand,  and  his  hat,  which  the  secretary  had 
reached  him,  in  the  other. 

'  Keep  your  temper,  old  man,'  said  Ire- 
monger,  pale  but  radiant.  'We  are  all 
yeomen  of  Kent  here,  you  know.  Ten  min- 
utes to  twelve  ?  Yes,  all  yeomen  of  Kent ; 
and  there 's  not  one  of  us  that  could  n't 
talk  straight  on  for  ten  minutes  if  we 
were  put  to  it,  eh  ?  —  Snoxell,  Kinson, 
Bentlif,  Walloond,  Morling,  Edmett,  Arvad, 
Axelrad  —  good  old  Kentish  names — and 
Iremonger,  by  Jove !  There  is  no  older 
family  in  England  than  the  Iremongers  of 
Kent,  and  no  family  more  remarkable  in  its 
descent.  The  blood  of  Roman,  Celt,  Saxon, 
and  Norman  circulates  in  my  veins.  "Ire," 
you  know,  from  "ira,"  anger;  and  "mon- 
ger," pure  Saxon.  Therefore,  a  Saxon  must 
have  married  the  offspring  of  a  union  be- 
tween a  Roman  and  a  Celt.  That  is  mainly 
176 


Talking  Against  Time 

tradition,  but  the  Norman  blood  is  in  the 
family  tree.  Give  me  a  Kentish  man  —  give 
me  an  Iremonger  —  and  give  me  Kent.' 

'  Why  do  you  live  in  London,  then  ? ' 
asked  Snoxell  quickly. 

Although  always  ready  for  a  fray,  he  had 
been  quite  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  Ire- 
monger  should  have  turned  on  him.  Now 
he  saw  that  it  was  something  else  than  a 
sudden  heat  against  him,  and  he  determined 
to  give  Iremonger  as  much  rope  as  he  could 
pay  out  in  ten  minutes. 

'  London  !  '  rejoined  Iremonger ;  '  why, 
London  is  the  only  safe  place  in  Britain  ! 
And  even  there  I  never  go  further  west  than 
Queen's  Gate,  and  further  east  than  Picca- 
dilly Circus  —  south  to  the  House,  and  north 
to  the  Zoo.' 

'  You  think,  then,  that  it 's  safe  between 
these  points? '  interjected  Snoxell,  paying  out 
rope. 

'  Pretty  safe  !  You  see,  London  is  so  im- 
mense that  I  should  be  bound  to  hear  of  the 
invasion  long  before  the  army  could  reach 
Piccadilly.' 

'  The  invasion  ?  ' 
12  177 


Talking  Against  Time 

'Yes.  You  seem  a  little  surprised;  and 
there  are,  indeed,  many  people  to  whom  the 
idea  of  the  coming  invasion  is  of  little 
moment.  To  me  it  is  of  the  first  import- 
ance.' 

'You  think,  then,  that  there  will  be  an 
invasion.  By  the  French  ? ' 

'  By  Europe.' 

'Europe?' 

'  Yes.  Europe  is  angry  at  Britain  with  an 
anger  that  has  been  growing  for  fifty  years 
—  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  —  ever  since 
Culloden.  I  should  say  ever  since  the 
Dutch  war,  in  Charles  II. 's  time ;  for  Hum- 
bert's abortive  attempt  in  Ireland  does  n't 
count.' 

'Doesn't  count? ' 

'  No.  Indeed,  we  may  go  back  to  the 
Spanish  Armada,  because  no  projected  in- 
vasion of  consequence  has  come  up  to  the 
scratch  since.' 

'  Ah !  And  the  impending  invasion  is 
certain  to  come  up  to  the  scratch  ? ' 

'  Rather !  You  see,  every  country  in 
Europe  has  been  overrun  by  alien  armies, 
and  drenched  in  native  blood  shed  by 
178 


Talking  Against  Time 

swords  of  foreigners  again  and  again,  while 
positively  the  last  parallel  instance  in  the 
history  of  England  is  the  battle  of  Hastings. 
Now,  Europe  is  not  going  to  stand  that  any 
longer.  Except  for  civil  wars  —  I  count  the 
invasion  by  the  Dauphin  in  John's  time 
civil  war  —  England  has  had  peace  within  her 
own  borders  for  seven  hundred  years.  It 's 
absurd,  gentlemen ;  Europe  can't  and  won't 
stand  it.  I  assure  you,  at  any  moment  a 
million  soldiers  may  march  on  London, 
levied  by  a  Continental  coalition.  I  have 
calculated,  however,  that  it  is  more  likely 
that  the  invasion  will  leave  London  to  the 
last,  in  order  that  the  whole  wealth  of  the 
country  may  be  collected  there.  Europe  's 
exasperated,  and  means  to  do  the  thing 
thoroughly  when  it  comes  over.  London  is 
therefore  the  only  place  from  which  one  is 
reasonably  certain  of  being  able  to  escape, 
and  so  I  prefer  to  live  there.' 

'  But  the  signs  of  the  times  point  to  war 
among  the  European  Powers  themselves, 
rather  than  to  an  invasion  of  Britain,'  said 
Snoxell. 

'  All  in  the  plan  —  all  in  the  plan  ! '  re- 
179 


Talking  Against  Time 

plied  Iremonger.  'They  keep  threatening 
each  other,  advancing  troops,  and  exhibiting 
ships  in  order  to  have  a  pretext  for  increas- 
ing and  perfecting  their  armies  and  navies. 
I  tell  you  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  the 
rancour  of  the  Powers  against  Britain. 
When  they  think  that  this  cold,  wet,  disa- 
greeable little  island,  inhabited  by  stupid 
people,  has  steadily  increased  in  wealth,  and 
managed  to  lay  hold  of  the  best  parts  of  the 
world  while  they  have  been  chewing  each 
other  up  like  rats  in  a  cage,  they  foam  at  the 
mouth  and  gnash  their  teeth.  Britain  is 
doomed;  Europe  will  kick  it  into  the  sea 
before  twenty  years  are  over  —  that  is  to 
say,  if  there  is  anything  left  to  kick.' 

'Anything  left?' 

'  Yes.  Have  you  paid  no  attention  to  the 
development  of  the  woman  question  ?  Mar- 
riage, once  a  lottery,  is  now  a  certainty. 
Hitherto,  the  husband  was  occasionally 
mate,  and  more  frequently  master;  now 
he  is  an  anachronism  which  woman  puts  up 
with,  just  as  we  have  beefeaters  in  the 
Tower.  Britain  is  doomed  either  way.  If 
it  escapes  the  Scylla  of  invasion,  it  falls  into 
180 


Talking  Against  Time 

the  Charybdis  of  the  "  monstrous  regiment  of 
women."     I  could  almost  welcome  the  in- 
vasion.    It  is  the  only  thing  that  would  put 
back  the  tyranny  of  women  for  another  half- 
century.     I  venture  to  prophesy  that  within 
twenty  years  there  will  be  a  general  exodus 
of  men  from  these  islands.' 
'And  the  women?' 
'Will  pursue  the  men.' 
'  There  seems  to  be  no  door  of  hope.' 
*  None.     Britain  is  practically  done  for  ! ' 
'  Well,  then,  Mr.  Iremonger,'  said  Snoxell, 
pocketing  his  watch  and  putting  on  his  hat, 
'  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  withdraw  from 
the  election,  die,  and  be  cremated  at  your 
earliest  convenience.' 

'  Cremated  ! '  cried  Iremonger.  « There 
again  !  If  everything  else  fails,  in  cremation 
you  have  the  surest  if  the  slowest  means  of 
extinguishing  the  world.  For  everybody 
burnt,  so  much  of  earth  is  lost.  In  the 
course  of  ages  you  will  gradually  deplete  the 
soil  and  destroy  all  organic  matter.  Don't 
you  see?  By  cremation  you  make,  as  it 
were,  the  fire  of  doomsday  chronic.  No,  I 
shall  never  be  cremated.  Earth  to  earth, 
181 


Talking  Against  Time 

and  dust  to  dust.  We  can  all  be  benefactors 
to  the  world  at  large,  and  at  last,  by  paying 
into  the  great  bank  of  life  —  the  soil  —  our 
bill  at  threescore  years  and  ten,  or  whenever 
it  is  due.  I  have  thought  over  all  these 
matters.  I  have  considered  everything.' 
Here  Iremonger  began  to  speak  with  great 
rapidity  and  very  loud,  Snoxell  having 
stepped  towards  the  door.  'The  world  is 
as  transparent  to  me  as  a  crystal  globe. 
Although  no  single  one  of  all  the  contin- 
gencies that  threaten  it  —  volcanic  rupture, 
comets,  the  attraction  of  the  sun —  should  find 
an  opportunity,  the  world,  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  Nature,  must  come  to  an  end.  It 
is  so  —  to  an  end.  But  I  have  a  stupendous 
idea  for  the  extension  of  the  ordinary  course 
of  Nature.  Whether  we  bury  or  cremate,  the 
soil  will  ultimately  lose  its  virtue.  But  if  we 
could  call  up  virgin  soil  from  the  deep  !  Yes, 
I  shall  write  to  the  Times  to-morrow.  We 
must  take  a  lesson  from  the  coral  insect, 
and,  by  means  of  ocean  burials,  create  new 
continents.  I  shall  work  it  out.  I  see  it ! 
Let  us  talk  it  over.' 

At  this  point  the  town  clock  began   to 
182 


Talking  Against  Time 

strike  twelve.  With  an  oath  Snoxell  started 
to  run,  but  Iremonger  seized  him  by  the 
coat-collar,  and  held  him  while  he  shouted 
in  his  ear,  nodding  his  head  emphatically  as 
he  counted  the  strokes : 

'Two — first  of  all,  we  —  three  —  should 
have  to  start  with  —  four  —  the  bodies  of 
criminals  —  five  —  use  up  human  waste  — 
six  —  with  the  bodies  of  criminals  —  seven  — 
we  could  settle  the  hash  of  the  Goodwin 
Sands  —  eight — an  island  in  place  of  the 
Goodwin  Sands  —  nine  —  on  a  foundation  of 
French  —  ten —  and  British  criminals  — 
eleven  —  with  a  middle  stratum  of — twelve 
—  Hurrah  for  old  Armstead  ! ' 

'  Confound  you ! '  cried  Snoxell,  as  a 
rumbling  shook  the  room.  'The  London 
express  has  gone ;  and  —  what  do  you  know 
of  Armstead  ? ' 

Iremonger,  breathless,  perspiring,  and  with 
a  sickly  smile  on  his  face,  had  thrown  him- 
self down  at  full  length  on  a  sofa. 

'  Armstead  ? '  he  replied.  '  My  oldest  friend.' 

'  Your    oldest    friend  ! '    echoed    Snoxell, 
falling  into  a  chair.     '  Then  I  'm  the  dupe  of 
a  pair  of  shameless  adventurers.' 
183 


Talking  Against  Time 

*  Gentlemen,'  said  Iremonger  quickly,  '  I 
have  no  explanation  to  offer,  and  neither, 
I  think,  has  the  chairman  in  the  mean- 
time.' 

Snoxell  nodded. 

'  One  thing  I  wish  to  say,  Mr.  Snoxell :  I 
had  no  idea  Armstead  was  in  England, 
and  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  anything  of 
him  for  a  year,  until  I  got  his  letter  ten 
minutes  ago.' 

'  What  the  —  But  it  does  n't  matter/  re- 
joined Snoxell.  '  You  have  one  other  thing 
to  say,  I  think,  Mr.  Iremonger,'  he  added 
significantly. 

'  Yes,'  rejoined  Iremonger.  '  Believe  me, 
gentlemen,  I  have  no  distinct  —  I  have 
really  no  recollection  at  all  of  what  I  said. 
I  deeply  regret  what  has  happened ;  it  was, 
however,  unavoidable  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. I  must,  of  course,  retire  from  the 
contest,  and  I  shall  now  write  at  once  a 
formal  resignation  of  my  candidature  on  the 
score  of  sudden  illness  —  an  attack,  gentle- 
men, to  the  reality  of  which  you  can  witness. 

Two  days   after,   Iremonger,  breakfasting 
184 


Talking  Against  Time 

late  in  his  rooms  in  King's  Bench  Walk,  was 
surprised  by  visitors. 

'  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Armstead.' 

'  What  ridiculous  news  is  this  ? '  cried 
Armstead. 

'  My  retiral,  you  mean  ?  Well  —  Hea- 
vens, Miss  Snoxell ! ' 

'  Mrs.  Armstead  now,  old  fellow.' 

'  I  begin  to  understand.  Perhaps  it  was 
on  her  account  you  left  England  a  year  ago  ? ' 

'  It  was,  Mr.  Iremonger,'  said  Mrs.  Arm- 
stead,  in  a  fine  tremor.  *  But  what  a  dread- 
ful thing  I  have  done !  Can  you  ever 
forgive  me  ? ' 

'For  making  Armstead  happy? ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  For  causing  you  to  lose  the 
election.' 

'  I  'm  rather  thankful  than  otherwise.  I 
lost  my  head,  and  said  things  my  committee 
could  never  forgive.  It  is  better  to  make  a 
fool  of  one's  self  privately  in  Belminster  than 
publicly  in  the  House  of  Commons,  as  I 
should  infallibly  have  done  sooner  or  later. 
Pray  consider  that  you  have  rendered  me  a 
service,  my  dear  Mrs.  Armstead.  Have 
some  tea,  and  tell  me  all  about  it.' 
185 


Talking  Against  Time 

'  Act  first,'  said  Armstead :  '  I  fall  in  love 
with  the  orphan  lady.  Uncle  Snoxell,  who 
has  managed  his  niece's  money  for  fifteen 
years,  insists  on  a  marriage  with  his  own  son. 
Lady  of  age,  but  dare  not  run  counter  to  her 
guardian,  a  strong  old  fellow  —  you  know 
him.  Act  second :  I  leave  England  in  de- 
spair. No  sooner  have  I  sailed  than  the 
lady  acquires  courage  to  brave  her  uncle, 
and  sends  a  letter  which  follows  me  half 
round  the  world.  Act  third :  Letter  re- 
ceived. I  hasten  home.  Interview  with 
lady  easy  on  account  of  election  bustle. 
Flight  arranged.  Suborned  maid  betrays 
at  last  moment  to  Snoxell's  son,  my  rival,  a 
foolish  youth;  then  repents  and  confesses 
betrayal  to  me.  Act  fourth :  Brilliant  idea 
—  employ  Iremonger  as  deus  ex  machina. 
No  sooner  thought  than  done.  Works  like 
magic.  Young  Snoxell  loiters  feebly  about 
the  station  awaiting  his  father.  I  hail  him 
from  the  carriage  and  offer  him  a  cigar, 
which  he  takes  —  feebly.  "  I  say,  you 
know,"  he  says,  "  you  've  got  Maud  hi  there. 
It  '11  never  do.  My  father 's  coming."  I 
bet  him  ten  to  one  that  his  father  won't 
186 


Talking  Against  Time 

come.  He  accepts,  and  tosses  —  feebly  — 
a  sovereign  at  the  carriage  window  as  the 
train  moves  off.  Act  fifth  :  Marriage.  The 
bride  and  bridegroom  visit  the  good  Ire- 
monger.' 

'  Epilogue  :  "  Bless  you,  my  children."  ' 


187 


BANDEROLE'S    AESTHETIC    BILL 

'  \7"OU  'RE  gloomy,  Banderole.' 

X       '  I  always  am  in  March.' 

'How's  that?' 

'  Because  in  March  I  mourn  for  my  ^Es- 
thetic Bill.' 

'  Your  ^Esthetic  Bill?' 

'  Yes ;  have  you  never  heard  of  it  ?  ' 

'  Never.     Tell  me  about  it,  Banderole.' 

'  Shall  I  ?  Well,  I  suppose  I  may.  But 
I  must  premise.  Look  at  me,  Magsworth. 
If  you  were  to  characterise  me,  you  would 
say  that  I  am  a  man  of  a  passable  appear- 
ance, with  —  ah  —  a  certain  undignified 
frankness  —  shall  we  call  it  ?  —  and  a  pleas- 
ant voice.  Come,  now,  we  've  known  each 
other  for  about  a  week ;  and  that 's  your 
opinion,  isn't  it?  Well-spoken,  well-look- 
ing, carelessly  frank,  and  —  shrewd  withal  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  I  may  think  that  you  are  perhaps  a 
little  partial  to  yourself;  but  that's  about 
my  opinion.' 

188 


Banderole's  Esthetic  Bill 

'  Quite  so.  That  is  the  opinion  I  have  of 
myself;  that  is  the  opinion  all  my  new  ac- 
quaintances form  of  me;  but  it  is  not  the 
opinion  of  my  old  friends ;  and  in  six  months 
it  will  cease  to  be  yours  if  you  continue 
knowing  me.' 

'I  shall  continue  knowing  you  if  for  no 
other  reason  than  to  test  the  truth  of  what 
you  say.' 

'  Very  well.  It  was  not  until  I  was  forty 
that  I  discovered  what  my  intimates  thought 
of  me.  Until  my  fortieth  year,  the  good- 
natured,  undemonstrative  deference  with 
which  those  who  knew  me  best  treated  me 
appeared  to  me  a  tribute  to  my  shrewdness. 
I  use  the  word  "  shrewdness  "  now ;  six  years 
ago  I  should  have  employed  some  such 
phrase  as  "  great  talents,"  "  indisputable 
capacity,"  or  "  remarkable  gifts  "  ;  but  I  have 
had  a  lesson.' 

*  Lessons  are  learnt  occasionally  even  in 
these  days,  when  people  are  afraid  to  ac- 
knowledge that  they  were  ever  taken  in  — 
even  by  themselves.' 

'  Quite  true.  One  day,  a  propos  of  some- 
thing I  had  said,  an  acquaintance  exclaimed, 
189 


Banderole's  ^Esthetic  Bill 

"  You  can't  mean  that !  It 's  not  in  keeping 
with  the  transparent  simplicity  of  your  char- 
acter." I  forget  what  it  was  I  had  said,  but 
that  remark  about  myself  was  a  revelation  to 
me.  I  went  home  with  it,  and  sat  down  and 
thought  it  out.  Clearly  my  intimates  con- 
sidered me  a  merely  ingenuous  person; 
brusque  people  took  the  edge  off  their  man- 
ners in  dealing  with  me,  not  because  they 
feared  me,  but  because  they  looked  upon  me 
as  a  child ;  and  the  wind  was  tempered  for 
me  generally.  It  was  a  painful  process,  I 
can  tell  you,  having  my  eyes  couched  of  the 
self-complacent  belief  that  others  thought 
me  a  thorough  man  of  the  world.  Then  for 
a  while  I  liked  my  being  misunderstood.  To 
have  the  reputation  of  a  simpleton  and  to 
be  a  Macchiavelli  is  to  enjoy  a  position  of 
great  power;  and  I  went  about  for  weeks 
revelling  in  a  perfect  analysis  of  the  motives 
of  all  my  acquaintances.  I  saw  how  they 
wanted  to  protect  me,  to  aid  me,  to  save  me ; 
I  had  only  to  ask  for  a  thing  to  have  it; 
everybody  wished  to  be  able  to  say,  "  I,  too, 
did  something  for  that  dear  fellow  Bande- 
role." I  tired  of  that,  however,  and  deter- 
190 


Banderole's  ./Esthetic   Bill 

mined  at  last  to  appear  in  ray  true  colours ; 
but  it  was  a  most  hopeless  undertaking.' 

'It  has  been  said  that  there  is  nothing 
more  difficult  to  live  down  than  a  good 
reputation.' 

'  And  well  said ;  I  found  it  so.  When  I 
did  anything  in  the  rdle  of  Macchiavelli, 
people  took  it  as  a  joke,  and  it  was  decided 
that  my  simplicity  of  character  grew  daily 
more  transparent.  It  was  to  no  purpose 
that  I  said  the  bitterest  things  about  all  my 
friends;  they  simply  quoted  them  to  each 
other  as  Banderole's  latest,  and  agreed  that 
none  but  a  man  of  the  most  ingenuous  nature 
could  have  detected  and  characterised  their 
faults  and  foibles  so  unerringly.  I  despaired 
of  ever  appearing  as  I  really  am  in  the  ordi- 
nary walks  of  life ;  so  after  much  cogitation 
I  hit  upon  a  distinctly  original  idea.  Did 
you  ever  have  a  distinctly  original  idea  ? ' 

'I'm  not  sure.' 

'  Well,  if  you  ever  have  one,  you  will  enjoy 
it,  at  first ;  and  then  you  will  be  in  an  agony 
till  you  make  up  your  mind  what  to  do  with 
it.  One's  first  penny  in  one's  first  breeches ' 
pocket  is  an  icicle  compared  to  one's  first 
191 


Banderole's  Esthetic  Bill 

original  idea.  There  are  so  many  things  you 
can  do  with  an  original  idea.  You  may 
exemplify  it  in  your  life  — ' 

'  And  get  run  in.' 

'You  may  put  it  into  a  magazine 
article  — ' 

'And  be  snubbed  for  a  plagiarist.  You 
may  imbed  it  in  a  play,  or  bury  it  in  three 
volumes ;  you  may  paint  it,  or  carve  it,  or 
sing  it,  and  nobody  will  look  at  it  or  listen 
to  it.' 

'You  understand  the  matter.  But  if  you 
put  it  into  a  Bill  and  get  it  passed,  why, 
there  you  are  for  ever  and  ever  with  the 
British  Constitution.  So  I  drew  up  a  Bill 
incorporating  my  original  idea.  By  that 
Bill  I  expected  at  one  stride  to  step  upon  a 
pedestal,  and  exhibit  once  for  all  that  breadth 
and  subtlety  which,  as  long  as  I  was  only 
one  man  more  in  the  street,  escaped  the  ob- 
servation even  of  those  who  knew  me  best.' 

'  But  you  were  never  in  Parliament  ? ' 

'No,  but  the   Marquis  of  WagstafPs  son 

promised  to  get  his  father  to  introduce  the 

Bill  into  the  House  of  Lords.     You  see,  it 

was  really  a  sort  of  sumptuary  Bill,  and  the 

192 


Banderole's  ./Esthetic  Bill 

Lords  was  the  proper  place  for  it,  I  was  told. 
I  called  it  a  "Bill  for  the  Beautifying  of 
Britain,"  or,  briefly,  an  "  ^Esthetic  Bill."  ' 

'Umph!     Goon.' 

'The  Bill  arranged  for  externals  only.' 

'  Right.  If  the  outside  of  the  platter  be 
clean,  it  follows  that  the  inside  will  also  be 
clean.' 

'I  am  glad  you  think  so.  It  was  my 
opinion.  I  have  found  that  the  best  shops 
make  the  finest  show,  in  spite  of  proverbs  to 
the  contrary.  I  made  no  attempt  to  be  com- 
prehensive, believing  that,  if  in  one  or  two 
vast  concerns  an  sesthetic  reformation  were 
effected,  the  details  would  practically  work 
out  themselves.  I  began  with  railways. 
My  Bill  provided  that  railways  should  be 
bordered  all  their  length  by  gardens,  and  so 
become,  as  it  were,  rivers  of  flowers  flowing 
across  and  along  the  whole  land.  The  lines 
themselves  were  to  be  made  of  steel,  damas- 
cened with  arabesques  in  brass  and  silver. 
The  stations  were  all  to  be  castles,  kiosks, 
pavilions,  with  drawing-rooms,  dining-rooms, 
smoking-rooms,  upholstered  artistically.  I 
worked  out  a  new  type  of  carriage  superior 
13  J93 


Banderole's  ^Esthetic   Bill 

to  anything  that  has  ever  been  seen  before ; 
and  I  introduced  a  clause  requiring  all 
electricians,  under  a  heavy  penalty,  to  labour 
at  the  development  of  electro-motion.  I 
made  it  penal  to  advertise  in  railway-stations ; 
but  that  was  covered  by  a  general  clause,  for- 
biding  all  mural  and  open-air  advertisement. 
It  seems  to  be  so  simple.  Stop  advertising, 
and  nobody  would  be  a  penny  the  worse. 
On  the  contrary,  a  great  many  people  would 
be  infinitely  better  in  temper  and  digestion, 
for  you  would  reduce  measurably  the  worry 
of  competition.' 

'  And  what  about  those  whose  occupations 
would  be  gone  —  advertising- agents  and  bill- 
stickers?' 

'  My  dear  Magsworth,  my  ^Esthetic  Bill 
provided  occupation  for  more  people  than 
are  ever  likely  to  want  work.  Consider  the 
immense  army  of  gardeners  required  for  the 
railway-borders,  of  skilled  craftsmen  to  keep 
my  damascened  lines  in  order.  In  every- 
thing I  touched  I  provided  work  —  artistic 
work  —  for  thousands.' 

'  Yes ;  but  about  this  advertising.     There 
are  many  miles  of   dead  wall    in  suburban 
194 


Banderole's  ./Esthetic  Bill 

lines  that  would  be  even  more  sombre  and 
depressing  were  it  not  for  the  enamel  and 
colour  of  wines,  perfumery,  etc.' 

'  I  would  have  the  bill-stickers  taught 
fresco-painting  —  they  can  already  wield  a 
brush;  and  they  should  then  cover  these 
walls  with  designs  and  pictures.' 

« And  the  economy  of  it  ?  How,  for 
example,  would  your  railways  pay?' 

'The  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  The 
Government  would,  of  course,  take  them  all 
over ;  there  would  be  only  one  class,  and 
one  fare  —  a  penny ;  you  would  stick  a  stamp 
in  your  hat  and  go  anywhere  —  from  Charing 
Cross  to  Westminster  or  Wick.  What 
would  be  the  result  of  such  an  arrange- 
ment ?  Why,  Britain  would  practically  re- 
side on  its  railways ;  and  you  would  have 
on  every  line,  not  a  constant  succession  of 
trains,  but  one  long  unbroken  train,  going 
and  coming,  all  day,  all  night.  And  the  in- 
come —  I  've  worked  it  out.  Suppose  twenty 
million  people  travelled  a  day  —  and  1  con- 
sider that  below  the  average  —  you  would 
have,  at  a  penny  a  head,  considerably  over 
^30,000,000  per  annum ;  but  at  least  two- 


Banderole's  Esthetic  Bill 

thirds  of  the  passengers  would  return  the 
same  day,  which  would  give  you  a  gross 
income  of  ^50,000,000.' 

'  Figures  like  these  speak  for  themselves. 
And  how  did  you  get  on  with  Lord  Wag- 
staff  ? ' 

'  Well,  when  I  had  the  Bill  drafted,  I  read 
it  to  Wagstaff's  son.  He  was  in  a  hurry  at 
the  time,  but  promised  to  tell  his  father 
about  it.  I  offered  to  send  him  a  copy,  but 
he  said  he  must  speak  about  it  first.  Next 
week  he  went  off  for  a  two-years'  tour  round 
the  world,  and  I  don't  believe  he  said  a  word 
to  his  father,  for  I  wrote  the  Marquis  three 
times  and  received  no  reply.  It  was  in 
March  I  drew  up  my  Bill.  I  have  never 
had  such  a  time  of  pleasurable  excitement 
since  :  hence  my  gloom.' 

'  And  you  never  got  on  the  pedestal  ?  ' 

'  No.  Yet  I  expounded  my  Bill  to  all  my 
friends.  It  is  my  unfortunate  reputation  as 
a  merely  ingenuous  person  that  stands  in 
the  way.  I  have  overheard  people,  after  the 
most  eloquent  exposition,  saying,  "Sweet 
soul,  Banderole  !  "  "  Delightful  creature  !  " 
"  So  simple  and  confiding  !  "  Now,  Mags- 
196 


Banderole's  /Esthetic  Bill 

worth,  honestly,  tell  me  your  opinion  of  my 
Bill.' 

'  I  really  have  n't  time.  I  have  to  go  — 
I  'm  afraid  I  'm  off  on  a  two-years'  tour  round 
the  world.1 


197 


AMONG  THE   ANARCHISTS 

'  "\  T  7E  can't  go  in  there,'  I  said  to  the 

V  V  acquaintance  who  had  persuaded 
me  to  visit  a  foreign  club  in  Whitechapel. 

It  was  cold ;  we  were  in  a  dark,  narrow 
street;  a  drunken  sailor  lounged  past  us, 
grumbling  at  the  universe ;  my  companion 
had  knocked  at  a  low  door,  and  upon  its 
being  opened  I  had  recoiled  from  the  noi- 
some-looking entry ;  the  physical  discomfort 
of  dirt  and  evil  smells  seemed  a  price  too 
dear  for  the  new  experience  I  had  agreed  to 
undergo. 

'  You  can't  go  back  now ;  it 's  quite  clean 
inside,'  replied  my  companion;  he  had  vis- 
ited the  club  more  than  once. 

In  we  went,  through  an  open  court,  and 
along  a  narrow,  ill-lit  passage  —  I  shudder- 
ing and  holding  my  breath,  my  companion 
whistling  and  unbuttoning  his  overcoat  — 
and  up  some  wooden  steps  to  a  landing, 
198 


Among  the  Anarchists 

where  a  man,  like  an  Italian,  met  us  at  the 
door  of  a  little  room.  To  him  my  compan- 
ion said  something,  which  he  afterwards  as- 
sured me  was  a  greeting  in  Yeddish,  the 
Hebrew-German  patois.  He  also  nodded 
to  a  woman  who  was  selling  ginger-beer  to 
two  fur-capped  men ;  she  was  a  blonde  Jew- 
ess, stout,  pleasant-looking,  neatly  dressed, 
with  a  cigarette  between  her  lips.  Some 
more  steps  brought  us  into  a  small  well-lit 
hall  with  a  stage  and  curtain  at  one  end. 
It  was  quite  clean,  the  plain  deal  benches 
bearing  still  the  marks  of  a  recent  scouring. 
On  the  walls  were  inscriptions  in  Hebrew 
letters ;  a  large  cartoon  of  the  Chicago  anar- 
chists, Spies,  Parsons,  Linggard,  Engel,  and 
Fischer,  who  were  executed  a  few  years  ago ; 
and  an  engraving  of  Lassalle  —  coarse ;  al- 
most a  caricature ;  like  a  composite  photo- 
graph of  Peace,  the  murderer,  and  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill.  Some  half-dozen  men 
were  hanging  about  the  door —  Polish  Jews, 
my  companion  said. 

We   took   seats   near  the   middle  of  the 
room,  and  had  not  long  to  wait  before  it 
filled  up.     It  was  about  five  minutes  to  eight 
199 


Among  the  Anarchists 

when  we  entered,  and  by  eight  o'clock  there 
were  nearly  two  hundred  people  assembled, 
men,  women,  and  children;  all  of  them 
clean,  and  tidily  dressed;  most  of  them 
remarkably  contented  and  cheerful-looking ; 
many  of  them  with  fresh  complexions  and 
bright  eyes;  handsome  faces  among  both 
the  men  and  the  women.  In  height,  the 
majority  were  under  the  average.  They 
were  nearly  all  Jews,  I  was  told;  dark, 
blonde,  auburn;  Russian,  German,  Polish, 
Italian ;  by  trade,  mostly  tailors  and  tailor- 
esses.  Conventional  Jewish  features  were 
rare,  however;  among  the  men,  not  more 
than  every  sixth  face  could  have  been  at 
once  identified  as  Israelitish ;  there  was  less 
deviation  in  the  women  from  the  ordinary 
type. 

They  were  all  Nihilists,  Anarchists,  the 
extreme  of  social  rebels.  It  was  a  club,  but 
there  was  no  smoking  or  beer-drinking ;  they 
all  seemed  to  know  each  other;  families, 
groups  of  intimates,  sat  together  talking  and 
laughing ;  people  moved  about  from  seat  to 
seat,  or  addressed  each  other  across  the 
room. 

200 


Among  the  Anarchists 

'Why,  this  is  very  tame,'  I  said  to  my 
companion.  '  Where  are  your  conspirators, 
your  incendiaries,  your  regicides  ?  ' 

He  laughed,  and  bade  me  wait  a  little. 
Shortly  a  bell  rang,  and  the  curtain  went 
up,  discovering  a  chairman  seated  at  a  table. 
Behind  him  was  a  painted  scene,  and  on 
either  hand  imitations  of  pillars  and  trees. 
He  had  a  large  brow,  gray  eyes,  shaved 
cheeks,  and  a  slight  moustache.  He  was 
nattily  dressed,  authoritative-looking,  evi- 
dently of  more  than  average  intelligence ; 
only  slightly  Jewish  in  the  cast  of  his  fea- 
tures ;  liker  an  English  than  a  foreign  Jew. 
A  carafe  with  water,  a  tumbler,  and  a  hand- 
bell were  on  the  table. 

The  chairman  said  a  few  words  in  Yed- 
dish,  which  made  his  hearers  laugh;  then 
he  announced  a  speaker  and  sat  down. 

A  man  left  the  audience,  and  entered  on 
the  scene  from  the  right.  He  was  rather 
tall,  with  very  fair  hair  and  fairer  beard; 
mild,  blue  eyes ;  black  clothes  fitting  him 
loosely ;  dishevelled,  uplifted,  the  type  of  an 
enthusiast;  not  a  Jew.  He  spoke  in  Ger- 
man, very  rapidly.  Only  part  of  the  audi- 
201 


Among  the  Anarchists 

ence  understood  him,  but  all  were  attentive. 
The  speaker  had  no  gesture,  little  motion  of 
any  kind,  was  diffident,  self-conscious,  but 
impressive.  When  he  had  spoken  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  the  chairman  rang  his 
bell.  In  less  than  five  minutes  the  speaker 
wound  up  his  address,  and  was  at  once  ques- 
tioned by  two  or  three  people  successively. 
He  gave  satisfactory  answers,  and  resumed 
his  seat  among  the  audience. 

Then  came  a  tall,  chubby  lad  of  seventeen 
or  eighteen,  whose  appearance  on  the  plat- 
form was  hailed  with  cheers  and  laughter. 
He  was  not  a  buffoon,  however ;  the  audience 
were  laughing'at  the  recollection  of  humorous 
sayings  of  the  youthful  orator  and  in  antici- 
pation of  fresh  witticisms.  He  spoke  slowly, 
smoothly,  without  effort,  and  the  Yeddish  had 
a  mellow  sound  in  his  clear  rich  voice.  Soon 
he  had  everybody  shaking  with  laughter ;  they 
laughed  quietly  lest  they  should  miss  a  single 
point.  Suddenly  the  mirth  died  down,  faces 
grew  pale,  and  tears  came  into  the  eyes  of 
women.  As  suddenly  the  laughter  burst  out 
again,  unrestrained  this  time,  crackling  and 
spluttering  among  the  tears.  The  speaker 
202 


Among  the  Anarchists 

alone  seemed  unmoved.  It  was  a  most 
remarkable  display  in  a  mere  boy  of  the 
highest  oratorical  power. 

The  third  and  last  speaker  was  a  Polish 
Jew  —  a  little  dark  man  with  a  thin,  pleasant 
enough  face,  and  burning  black  eyes.  He 
was  received  demonstratively,  and  plunged  at 
once  into  a  tirade  —  an  indictment  of  Capi- 
talism, or  of  Society  in  general,  doubtless. 
He  drove  his  charges  home  with  clenched 
hands  and  a  pouring  delivery,  which  had  the 
effect  of  a  shower-bath  on  the  audience,  leav- 
ing them  breathless  and  glowing  all  over. 

After  the  speeches  the  chairman  stepped 
down  from  the  platform,  and  a  conversazione 
began,  everybody  smiling  and  in  the  best  of 
humour.  Cigarettes,  cigars,  and  a  few  pipes 
were  now  lit ;  and  the  women  and  children 
ate  cakes  and  drank  lemonade. 

'  Well  ?  '  queried  my  companion. 

'  I  am  much  amazed  and  amused,'  I  said. 
'  Do  you  know  what  it  reminds  me  of  ?  ' 

'A  Young  Men's  Mutual  Improvement 
Society?' 

'Very  nearly.  To  me  this  meeting  of 
Anarchists  is  exactly  like  a  church  soiree. 
203 


Among  the  Anarchists 

There  is,  apparently,  the  same  respectability, 
the  same  easy,  simmering  excitement,  the 
same  perfect  confidence  in  the  absolute 
uprightness  of  their  purpose  in  meeting  to- 
gether. I  should  say  that  this  club  is  no 
more  dangerous  to  the  State  than  a  Mission- 
hall.' 

'  I  am  not  so  sure  about  the  danger,' 
replied  my  companion,  '  but  I  agree  with  the 
rest  of  what  you  say.  Their  political  creed 
is  the  religion  of  these  people ;  and  as  human 
nature  is  identical  everywhere,  their  weekly 
meetings  present  the  same  phenomena  as  the 
weekly  meetings  of  any  other  body  of  people 
united  in  doctrine.  I  confess  [that  it  has 
been  somewhat  tame  to-night.  I  have  seen 
hot  debates,  heard  hoarse  cries,  and  watched 
stealthy  hands  groping  for  revolvers  and 
knives.' 

'What !  to  fight  among  themselves?  ' 

'  Oh,  no  !  Excited  almost  to  the  point  of 
running  amuck.' 

'Come,  now,'  I  said,  'how  do  you  know 
that  there  are  revolvers  and  knives  here  ?  ' 

My  companion  answered  rather  evasively. 
He  had  interpreted  certain  actions  to  mean 
204 


Among  the  Anarchists 

the  clutching  of  weapons;  but  I  gathered 
that  he  had  never  seen  either  a  knife  or  a 
revolver  within  the  walls  of  this  club. 

Families,  groups,  sweethearts,  and  indi- 
viduals began  to  leave;  by  half-past  nine 
the  hall  was  cleared.  My  companion  intro- 
duced me,  in  the  anteroom,  to  the  chairman, 
the  speakers,  and  several  other  Anarchists ; 
and  I  started  a  conversation  with  the  crude 
announcement  '  that  popular  common- sense 
which  regards  Anarchism  as  synonymous  with 
violence  and  dynamite  is  as  right  as  ever  it 
was.' 

'  Ah ! '  said  the  enthusiast,  who  spoke 
English  correctly,  and  with  little  accent, 
*  that  is  just  what  Society  says,  "  No  com- 
promise;" and  that  is  what  we  say.' 

*  But  dynamite  is  a  compromise,'  I  re- 
joined. 'War  in  any  form  is,  and  always 
has  been,  a  compromise  :  both  parties,  afraid 
of  being  put  in  the  wrong  by  the  "  no  com- 
promise" of  impartial  arbitration,  fly  to 
arms.' 

A  tolerant  smile  was  the  only  reply  the 
enthusiast  deigned  to  give  to  my  paradox. 

'  Everyting,'  said  the  fiery  Polish  Jew,  '  ees 
205 


Among  the  Anarchists 

gompromyce.     Ze  woarld  ees  a  gompromyce 
between  ze  inanity  and  someting.' 

The  enthusiast  rejoined  in  Yeddish.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  he  was  explaining  to  the 
Polish  Jew  his  own  meaning  :  I  wish  he  had 
explained  it  to  me.  Then  he  went  on  in 
English,  'Yes,  everything  is  a  compromise. 
Life  itself  is  the  only  evil,  and  all  our  organi- 
zations and  schemes  are  a  compromise,  or 
an  attempted  compromise,  with  it.  I  refer 
everything  to  the  two  poles,  positive  and 
negative.  The  negative  is  the  supreme  un- 
attainable good ;  the  positive  is  the  supreme 
ever-present  evil.  If  we  live  we  compro- 
mise; "no  compromise"  would  be  a  de- 
struction of  all  life  in  order  to  attain  the 
unattainable.' 

'Then  you  admit  that  the  true  doctrine 
of  the  Anarchists  is  one  of  destruction?' 

'  I  do.  Hegel  marks  the  culminating  point 
of  the  purely  theoretic  side  of  modern  culture ; 
therefore  we  have  arrived  precisely  at  the 
point  where  the  necessary  dissolution  of  that 
culture  ought  to  begin.' 

'  Why,  then,  you  are  a  Nihilist,'  said  my 
companion. 

206 


Among  the  Anarchists 

1  If  you  like.  I  would  prefer,  however,  to 
be  called  an  ^nihilist.  I  have  never  quite 
understood  how  the  word  Nihilist  got  its 
vogue.  We  don't  believe  in  nothing ;  on 
the  contrary,  we  are  intoxicated  with  belief 
in  everything  conceivable,  and  wish  to 
annihilate  it.' 

This  the  enthusiast  said  with  nonchalant 
gravity,  as  if  it  were  even  simpler  to  organise 
a  revolution  for  the  annihilation  of  humanity 
than  for  the  overthrow  of  a  government. 

*  But  would  you  not  be  content  with 
change  ?  '  I  asked. 

'For  my  part,  I  believe  change  is  im- 
possible. The  form  may  alter,  has  altered, 
again  and  again;  but  you  will  always  have 
dominant  and  serving  classes,  always  rich 
and  poor.' 

At  this  a  tall,  red-bearded  German,  who 
spoke  good  English,  burst  in  with  a  dis- 
claimer. 

'  No,  no  ! '  he  cried ;  '  you  misrepresent 
Anarchism  —  or,  at  least,  you  may  cause  this 
gentleman  to  misunderstand  it.  Anarchism 
is  the  individual  revolution  as  distinct  from 
the  collective  revolution.  The  collective 
207 


Among  the  Anarchists 

revolution  is  impossible,  because  we  exist, 
not  as  a  community,  but  only  as  individuals. 
You  see?  There  is  nothing  above  me, 
nothing  without  me,  nothing  within  me, 
greater  than  myself.  I  do  not  submit  my- 
self to  my  spirit,  mind  you.  My  spirit,  like 
my  flesh,  is  only  one  of  my  qualities;  the 
individual  is  more  than  soul  and  body.' 

'  Well,  now,  what  is  the  individual  ?  '  asked 
my  companion. 

'  The  individual,  the  ego !  '  replied  the 
German.  *  There  are  no  words  to  define  it ; 
it  is  unsayable ;  it  cannot  be  named ;  it  is 
perfect ;  every  individual  is  every  instant  ex- 
actly what  he  can  be,  and  nothing  more  or 
less.  I  know  of  nothing  that  can  impose 
duty  on  me.  I  do  not  consider  myself  as  an 
individual  among  other  individuals,  but  as 
the  only  individuality  which  exists.  All 
things  —  men  and  so-called  property  —  are 
my  goods  and  chattels  in  proportion  as  my 
force  allows  me  to  appropriate  them.' 

The  enthusiast  attempted  an  interruption 
at  this  point  in  the  German's  harangue,  but 
the  latter  bore  him  down. 

'You  see,  it  is  simply  freedom,'  he  said, 
208 


Among  the  Anarchists 

'and  one  is  free  in  proportion  as  one  is 
strong ;  there  is  no  liberty  except  what  you 
take.  The  State,  Religion,  Humanitarianism, 
Socialism  —  all  that  disappears  before  the 
Sovereign  ME.  Truth  itself  signifies  nothing. 
Thoughts  are  the  creatures  of  the  individual ; 
they  are  not  themselves  the  individual.  I 
say  that  to  believe  in  a  truth,  in  any  truth, 
is  to  abdicate  the  individual.  Thus  we  are 
all  fighting  against  each  other,  and  every 
weapon  is  allowable  —  poison,  infernal  ma- 
chines, because  all  that  is  required  to  become 
immediately  endowed  with  an  inalienable 
right  to  have  a  thing  is  that  one  should 
desire  to  possess  it.' 

'  Would  it  not  be  wise,  then,'  I  asked,  '  in 
an  individual  holding  your  opinions,  to  keep 
them  to  himself  ?  For  his  own  sake,  I  mean ; 
he  will  have  a  better  chance  of  securing 
what  he  wants  if  he  alone  acts  on  his  "  no 
principle."  You  are  too  benevolent ;  you  arm 
every  one  against  you  if  you  tell  the  world 
that  you  have  taken  for  your  creed  the 
negation  of  the  decalogue.' 

'  Error  ! '  said  the  red-haired  German 
coolly.  « It  is  not  for  love  of  men,  still  less 
M  209 


Among  the  Anarchists 

for  love  of  truth,  that  I  express  my  thoughts, 
but  for  my  own  pleasure  exclusively.  I  speak 
because  I  have  a  voice,  and  I  address  you 
because  you  have  ears  for  which  my  voice 
was  intended.' 

'  Let  me  speak  now,'  said  the  chairman. 
'  I  should  like  this  gentleman  to  see  that 
there  are  as  many  kinds  of  Anarchism  as 
there  are  men  —  me,  for  example.  I  want  to 
be  a  tyrant ;  to  relieve  the  world  of  all  moral 
clogs  and  world-old  prejudices;  to  be  the 
anarch,  and  found  a  new  religion  and  a  new 
legislative  system  for  my  own  glory.' 

The  chairman's  brief  declaration  elicited 
no  surprise  from  his  companions,  and  I  re- 
ceived it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

'I  understand  Anarchism  now,'  I  said; 
'it  is  simply,  Every  man  his  own  god.' 

'  Precisely,'  said  the  enthusiast. 

'Of  course  you  are  all  wrong,'  said  my 
companion.  '  Don't  you  see  that  Anarchism 
is  the  exaggeration  of  the  idea  of  Liberty, 
just  as  Socialism  is  the  exaggeration  of  the 
idea  of  Equality?  Both  have  parted  com- 
pany with  each  other,  and  with  Fraternity. 
In  my  opinion,  Society  is  quite  healthy, 
210 


Among  the  Anarchists 

although  its  constitution  may  be  run  down, 
largely  the  result,  I  should  say,  of  a  dissipa- 
tion in  Liberty  and  Equality.  You  have 
divorced  these  two  ideas  from  Fraternity, 
without  which  they  cannot  hold  water.  Did 
nobody  ever  say  to  you,  "  Little  children, 
love  one  another"?  Liberty,  Equality, 
Fraternity  !  For  the  first  two  we  want  to 
substitute  Duty  and  Reverence.  Fraternity 
means  Charity.' 

Those  who  understood  him  smiled  toler- 
antly and  went  for  their  hats  ;  they  were  not 
there  to  listen.  They  wished  us  '  Good- 
night '  frankly  and  cheerily,  and  my  com- 
panion and  I  took  our  departure. 


211 


THE   INTERREGNUM  IN   FAIRY- 
LAND 

HAROLDA  lived  with  a  lady  whom  she 
called  aunt,  in  a  noisy  street  in  the 
north  of  London.  She  was  rather  a  forlorn 
little  girl,  although  the  lady  treated  her  very 
well  indeed.  Her  uncle,  as  she  called  the 
lady's  husband,  never  forgot  her  birthday, 
and  when  she  was  seven  years  old  he  gave 
her  a  book  of  fairy-stories,  containing  many 
coloured  pictures  and  very  little  reading. 
Harolda  was  not  clever,  and  it  took  her  all 
her  time  to  spell  out  the  stories.  But  she 
liked  stories  much  better  than  the  other 
children  in  the  house  did,  and  this  made 
her  the  favourite  of  an  old  lady  who  lived 
across  the  way,  and  knew  a  great  many  tales 
and  delighted  to  tell  them.  After  tea 
Harolda  would  cross  the  road  with  her  doll 
to  this  old  lady's  house,  and  would  hear  of 
giants  and  jinns  and  fairies,  of  underground 
212 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

palaces  and  enchanted  forests,  and  of  poor 
girls  who  had  married  beautiful  princes. 
Most  people  would  have  thought  Harolda  a 
very  simple-minded  little  girl,  for  she  longed 
greatly  to  go  to  an  enchanted  forest;  but 
she  never  thought  of  setting  out  in  search  of 
one  as  long  as  she  had  the  old  lady  to  talk  to. 

At  last,  shortly  before  the  end  of  Harolda's 
eighth  year,  the  old  lady  left  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  nobody  could  say  where  she  had 
gone  to.  So  Harolda,  having  no  one  to  tell 
her  any  stories,  made  up  her  mind  to  do 
nothing  less  than  go  in  search  of  Fairyland 
itself;  she  thought  that  perhaps  a  story 
might  happen  to  her.  She  intended  at  first 
to  ask  one  of  the  children  who  had  called 
her  *  cousin  '  to  accompany  her ;  but  she 
changed  her  mind  when  she  remembered 
how  they  had  all  made  such  a  jest  of  her 
and  her  fancies.  Therefore  she  took  with 
her  only  her  doll  and  her  picture-book. 

It  was  after  tea  that  she  set  out,  because 
it  was  her  habit  at  that  time  of  the  day  to 
have  her  mind  filled  with  stories  of  fairies 
and  with  the  hope  of  an  adventure  in  Fairy- 
land. Harolda's  holidays  had  always  been 
213 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

spent  at  sea-coast  places,  and  she  had  never 
seen  a  forest.  She  had  heard,  however,  of 
one  near  London,  called  Epping  Forest ; 
and  it  was  to  it  she  meant  to  go.  When  she 
had  got  two  or  three  streets  away  from  the 
one  she  lived  in,  she  went  up  to  a  policeman 
who  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  pave- 
ment, and  said  to  him  : 

'  Please  tell  me  the  way  to  Epping  Forest.' 

The  policeman  looked  down  at  her  with  a 
curious  expression  on  his  face,  and  said 
nothing  for  such  a  long  time  that  she  began 
to  think  he  was  an  enchanted  policeman. 

'Epping  Forest?'  he  exclaimed  at  last. 
'  Why,  you  're  nearly  four  miles  from  Epping 
Forest !  Have  you  lost  your  way  ? ' 

'No,'  she  said,  'not  yet;  but  I  hope  to 
when  I  get  to  the  forest.' 

'  Oh,  you  do  ! '  exclaimed  the  policeman, 
not  knowing  what  to  make  of  Harolda,  for 
she  talked  what  he  thought  either  nonsense 
or  impudence,  and  yet  looked  so  much  in 
earnest. 

'What  direction  is  it?'  asked  Harolda 
wistfully.  '  Will  this  street  take  me  ?  ' 

'  It 's  on  the  way,'  said  the  policeman. 
214 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

'Thank  you,'  said  Harolda,  and  tripped 
off  with  her  book  and  her  doll. 

It  was  a  very  long  street,  with  few  turnings 
in  it,  and  when  she  came  to  the  end  of  it  she 
already  felt  tired. 

'  Which  is  the  way  to  Epping  Forest  ?  ' 
she  said  to  a  postman,  thinking  that  he 
would  be  likely  to  know  the  shortest  way 
to  anywhere. 

The  postman,  hurrying  past  her,  turned 
his  head  to  say  something  over  his  shoulder ; 
but  Harolda  had  such  a  pleading  face,  and 
was  so  quaint  and  pretty  in  her  looks  and 
her  dress,  that  the  postman  was  constrained 
to  stop.  He  looked  at  her  curiously,  as  the 
policeman  had  done,  and  said  : 

'  Epping  Forest !  Which  part  of  Epping 
Forest?' 

'  I  want,'  said  Harolda,  '  to  go  to  that  part 
of  Epping  Forest  where  the  fairies  live  and 
all  the  beasts  can  speak.' 

'  Oh,  you  do  ? '  exclaimed  the  postman,  just 
as  the  policeman  had  done.  '  Well,  it 's 
some  miles  from  here,  I  reckon.  But  you  'd 
best  take  a  train.' 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  cried  Harolda,  with  a  scared 
215 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

look ;  '  I  would  never  think  of  such  a  thing. 
We  must  walk,  unless  we  have  an  enchanted 
horse  or  something.' 

( Well,'  said  the  postman,  laughing,  '  take 
the  second  to  the  right,  and  keep  on  as  far 
as  that  road  goes,  and  then  ask  again.' 

'  Oh,  thank  you  ! '   said  Harolda. 

The  postman,  as  long  as  she  was  in  sight, 
looked  back  at  her  wonderingly  each  time  he 
delivered  a  letter. 

Harolda  was  hardly  able  to  drag  one  foot 
after  another  when  she  came  to  the  end  of 
the  postman's  road ;  but  she  was  not  going 
to  give  in,  so  she  asked  a  milkman  this 
time. 

'  Epping    Forest ! '    said   the    milkman. 

*  Why,  I  come  from  there,  and  I  'm  going 
back  now.     Have  you  lost  your  way  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no  ! '  said  Harolda.  '  How  can  I 
lose  my  way  till  I  get  there  ? ' 

'  Eh  ? '  said  the  milkman,  who  was  a  kind- 
hearted  man,  but  not  very  intelligent.  '  Well, 
I  'm  going  Woodford  way,  and  you  can  jump 
in  if  you  like." 

'Thank  you  very  much,'    said    Harolda. 

*  Is  Woodford  near  Epping  Forest  ?  ' 

216 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

'  Why,  it 's  in  it,'  replied  the  milkman. 

Harolda  wondered  a  little,  but  forbore 
any  more  questions,  and  stepped  into  the 
milkman's  cart. 

By  rows  of  houses,  lines  of  trees  and  high 
hedges,  they  rattled  and  clattered  along. 
The  milkman  whistled  and  hummed  tunes, 
while  Harolda  nursed  her  doll  and  looked  at 
her  picture-book.  In  half  an  hour's  time 
they  came  among  gardens  and  pleasant 
villas.  Shortly  after  they  entered  a  little 
street,  and  the  milkman  pulled  up  before  a 
dairy. 

'  But  this  is  not  the  forest,'  said  Harolda, 
getting  out. 

'  Yes,  it  is,'  said  the  milkman.  '  It 's  all 
forest  about  here.' 

'  But  where  is  the  place  where  the  fairies 
live  and  all  the  beasts  can  talk  ?  ' 

'  What  a  funny  little  girl  you  are  ! '  said 
the  milkman,  beginning  to  carry  his  cans  into 
the  dairy. 

With   a   sinking   heart   Harolda   left   the 

milkman  and  went  up  the  street.     Opposite 

the  church  she  met  a  girl  a  few  years  older 

than  herself,  and  she  asked  her  where  the 

217 


V. 

The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

true  forest  was  — '  where  there  are  no  houses, 
but  only  trees  and  grass  and  bushes  and 
ferns,  where  the  fames  live  and  all  the  beasts 
can  talk.' 

The  girl  was  good-natured,  and  although 
she  laughed  at  Harolda,  she  took  her  to  a 
lane  and  showed  her  where  at  the  end  of  it  a 
wood  appeared. 

'  Perhaps,'  said  Harolda,  '  you  are  a  fairy.' 

*  Oh,  no  ! '  replied  the  girl,  laughing  merrily. 

'And  the  milkman  and  his  cart-,'  said 
Harolda  anxiously ;  '  do  you  think  they 
were  n't  sent  by  the  fairies  ?  ' 

'  I  think  not,'  said  the  laughing  girl.  '  But 
I  don't  know  what  you  mean.' 

'  Good-bye,  and  thank  you,'  said  Harolda. 

Her  courage  rose  again  at  the  sight  of  the 
wood,  and  she  ran  along  the  lane  quite 
briskly,  because  she  had  been  much  rested 
by  her  ride  in  the  milkman's  cart.  She 
crept  through  a  fence,  and  soon  found  her- 
self knee-deep  in  feathery  grass.  A  blush 
had  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  which  were 
usually  rather  pale,  and  her  blue  eyes 
glowed  as  if  little  beacons  had  been  lit  in 
them.  She  pressed  on,  looking  eagerly  into 
218 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

the  shade ;  but  just  when  she  began  to  feel 
that  now  at  last  she  might  expect  to  meet  a 
fairy,  the  wood  came  to  a  sudden  end,  and 
she  saw  a  road  and  garden  walls,  and  the 
red  roofs  of  houses.  Two  big  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks,  and  a  sob  shook  her  little 
body;  but  she  turned  back  to  where  the 
trees  were  thickest,  and  went  forward  in  a 
different  direction.  This  time  she  came  to 
a  close  wooden  fence,  much  too  high  for  her 
to  climb,  and  she  saw  clearly  that  she  had 
not  yet  arrived  in  the  forest.  She  therefore 
left  the  little  wood,  and,  looking  about  her- in 
the  lane,  perceived  at  some  distance  a  high 
ridge  extending  east  and  west,  and  densely 
covered  with  trees.  That  must  be  the  forest, 
she  thought ;  and  off  she  set  straight  for  it 
through  fields  and  over  fences.  It  was  a 
very  tiresome  way;  she  had  to  take  many 
roundabouts,  and  sometimes  to  retrace  her 
steps;  and  at  last,  when  she  thought  there 
was  nothing  between  her  and  the  forest  but 
a  little  plain  where  some  horses  were  feed- 
ing, she  fell  headlong  into  a  deep  ditch,  and 
got  herself  all  wet  and  dirty,  and  lost  both 
her  shoes ;  but  she  saved  her  doll  and  her 
219 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

picture-book.  She  was  so  near  the  goal, 
however,  that  this  misfortune  hardly  troubled 
her.  Over  the  little  grassy  plain  she  ran,  as 
if  she  had  been  beginning  instead  of  ending 
her  journey ;  but  when  she  came  to  the  true 
forest  she  was  dismayed  to  find  no  entrance. 
On  every  side  she  was  met  by  a  wall  of 
thorns  and  brambles  and  briars,  through 
which  only  a  weasel  could  make  a  way,  or 
a  woodman  with  an  axe.  However,  she 
found  a  broad  path  like  an  avenue  bordering 
the  forest,  and  this  she  followed,  looking 
carefully  all  the  time  for  a  break  in  the  wall 
of  underwood. 

It  was  now  well  on  in  the  evening,  and 
would  soon  be  quite  dark.  A  low  hum  and 
faint  muffled  noises  came  out  of  the  forest, 
and  fear  began  to  make  Harolda's  heart 
flutter.  She  was  thinking,  half  gladly,  that 
perhaps  she  would  find  no  way  in,  when  a 
moaning  like  that  of  a  woman  in  distress 
began  close  beside  her,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  dark  opening  appeared  between  two 
blackthorn  bushes.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
run  away ;  then  she  burst  into  tears,  feeling 
how  tired  she  was,  and  remembering  that 
220 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

she  had  lost  her  shoes,  and  that  she  was 
four  miles  from  home  in  a  lonely  wood  all  by 
herself,  and  the  night  fast  approaching. 

The  moaning  grew  louder  and  more  dis- 
tressing. '  Poor  woman  ! '  thought  Harolda, 
'  she  may  be  dying.  Perhaps  I  can  help 
her.'  Without  more  ado,  and  the  tears  still 
running  down  her  cheeks,  she  went  in  by 
the  dark  opening  between  the  blackthorn 
bushes,  and  came  at  once  upon  the  woman 
who  was  moaning  so  bitterly.  Harolda  could 
see  that  the  woman's  clothes  were  ragged, 
and  that  her  gray  hair  was  dishevelled ;  but 
the  face  of  the  woman  was  hidden  on  her 
knees  as  she  rocked  herself  to  and  fro. 

*  My  baby  ! '  she  moaned ;  '  my  boy  !  His 
eyes  were  like  pansies,  and  his  laugh  was 
like  the  brook's.  Where  have  they  hidden 
him?' 

Harolda  shuddered  and  clasped  her  doll  j 
if  her  doll  were  to  be  taken  from  her,  she 
would  lament  like  that,  she  knew.  Her  heart 
would  certainly  break  if  she  were  to  lose  her 
doll  for  ever  and  ever.  She  could  n't  re- 
member a  time  when  she  did  n't  have  it.  Its 
wooden  face  was  chipped,  and  all  the  paint 

221 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

gone  except  the  pupil  of  one  eye ;  but  it  had 
slept  in  her  bosom  every  night  for  five  years ; 
she  had  dressed  it  in  its  best  clothes  for  the 
journey ;  and  she  loved  it  so  much.  It  was 
the  only  thing  she  had  in  the  world  to  love 
now !  It  was  her  baby ;  and  she  did  pity 
with  all  her  heart  this  poor  woman  who  had 
lost  hers. 

'  Oh,  my  boy,  my  little  boy  ! '  moaned  the 
woman,  suddenly  flinging  up  her  head  and 
staring  in  front  of  her.  *  Lost !  lost ! ' 

Harolda  shuddered  again.  In  the  dim 
light  she  could  just  see  the  woman's  face  — 
the  eyes  and  the  hollow  cheeks,  so  hopeless 
and  so  full  of  pain.  Her  little  heart  ached 
with  sympathy,  all  the  more  because  the 
woman  was  very  like  the  old  lady  who  had 
told  her  fairy  tales. 

'  Poor  woman  ! '  she  said ;  and  then,  with- 
out thinking  that  she  was  bereaving  herself, 
she  went  up  to  her,  and  laid  her  doll  on  the 
woman's  knees. 

« What ! '    cried  the  woman,  clutching   it 
and  holding  it  out  at  arm's  length.       'My 
baby !  my  boy ! '  and  she  hugged  it  in  her 
arms  and  wrapped  it  in  her  shawl. 
222 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

«  Oh,  my  dolly  ! '  moaned  Harolda,  realis- 
ing what  she  had  done. 

She  made  a  motion  with  outstretched  arms, 
as  if  to  reclaim  her  property  j  but  the  woman 
seemed  not  to  see  her,  and  began  to  hum  a 
lullaby : 

'  Where  shall  my  little  one  play  in  his  childhood  ? 
Swing  him  a  cradle  deep  in  the  wildwood, 
Where  the  timid  squirrel  abides, 
And  the  frightened  roe-deer  hides, 
Where  the  bronzy  slow-worm  crawls, 
And  the  mousing  owlet  calls.' 

As  she  sang,  an  extraordinary  change  came 
over  her.  Her  gray  hair  changed  to  gold, 
her  hollow  cheeks  filled  out,  sparks  of  fire 
seemed  to  run  this  way  and  that  through  her 
rags,  and  before  the  verse  was  finished  she 
stood  up  in  the  greenwood,  a  beautiful  fairy 
in  glistening  robes.  And  more  wonderful 
still,  Harolda's  doll  had  become  a  little  boy 
baby,  with  eyes  like  pansies  and  a  laugh  like 
a  rippling  brook.  It  was  quite  dark  now, 
but  Harolda  saw  the  fairy  and  the  changeling 
clearly  by  the  light  that  shone  from  their 
dresses  and  their  hair  and  their  eyes. 

'  Oh ! '  cried  Harolda  from  the  very 
223 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

bottom  of  her  heart,  clasping  her  hands,  and 
letting  her  book  fall  in  her  astonishment  and 
delight. 

'  Your  book  has  fallen,  little  girl,'  said  the 
fairy.  '  Pick  it  up  and  give  it  to  my  baby.' 

Harolda  did  as  she  was  told  at  once ;  and 
the  baby  clutched  the  book,  and  crowed  and 
sucked  the  corners. 

Then  the  fairy  took  off  a  satchel  of  sewed 
work  with  a  silver  mount,  and  a  pearl  em- 
broidered belt  which  she  wore,  and  gave 
them  to  Harolda,  and  told  her  to  put  them 
on.  When  Harolda  had  fastened  the  belt 
with  trembling  fingers  round  her  waist,  she 
was  told  to  open  the  satchel  and  take  out 
the  things  that  were  in  it.  The  first  thing 
that  she  took  out  was  a  diamond  as  big  as  a 
large  bean,  and  it  shone  like  a  glow-worm  in 
her  hand. 

'  Do  you  remember,'  said  the  fairy,  'when 
you  found  that  the  little  wood  was  not  the 
forest,  how  two  great  tears  rolled  down  your 
cheeks  ? ' 

'No,'  said  Harolda,  who  remembered 
about  the  wood,  but  had  forgotten  all  about 
her  tears. 

224 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

4  Never  mind,'  said  the  fairy,  '  take  out  the 
other  one.' 

Sure  enough,  when  Harolda  put  her  hand 
into  the  satchel  again,  she  found  a  second 
diamond  as  large  as  the  first. 

4  These  are  your  two  tears,'  said  the  fairy. 
4  Put  in  your  hand  again.  Now,  what  do  you 
feel? ' 

4  I  feel  as  if  the  little  bag  were  full  of  peas 
and  barley,'  replied  Harolda. 

4  Take  out  a  handful,'  said  the  fairy. 

Harolda  took  out  a  handful,  and  found  that 
the  things  like  peas  and  barley  were  pearls 
of  various  sizes,  but  all  of  the  first  water. 
Some  of  them  fell  on  the  ground,  and  first 
they  changed  into  dewdrops,  and  then  into 
daisies. 

*  These  pearls,'  said  the  fairy,  *  are  the 
shower  of  tears  you  shed  a  little  while  ago, 
when  you  heard  me  crying.  Now  put  them 
all  back.' 

When  Harolda  had  replaced  the  pearls 
and  the  diamonds  in  the  satchel  and  shut  it 
up,  the  fairy  said  : 

4 1  have  only  one  gift  to  give  you,  for  these 
pearls  and  diamonds  were  your  own  from 
15  225 


The   Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

the  first.  You  shall  henceforth  have  the 
power  of  seeing  in  the  dark.  Turn  your 
back  to  me  and  close  your  eyes.' 

Harolda  obeyed  at  once,  and  the  fairy 
said : 

'  Count  twenty,  open  your  eyes,  and  go 
straight  forward  till  you  meet  Irkanda,  the 
great  enchantress,  whom  you  must  obey  as 
you  have  obeyed  me.' 

As  soon  as  Harolda  had  counted  twenty, 
she  looked  behind  her;  but  the  fairy  and 
her  baby  and  the  picture-book  had  vanished. 
She  was  not  dismayed,  however,  feeling  cer- 
tain that  she  would  see  them  again.  Be- 
sides, all  her  thoughts  were  taken  up  with 
her  satchel  and  its  contents,  with  her  new 
gift  of  sight  by  night,  and  with  the  expecta- 
tion of  meeting  the  enchantress,  Irkanda. 
She  could  see  as  clearly  as  in  the  daytime, 
only  everything  had  a  very  strange  appear- 
ance ;  she  thought  it  must  be  like  walking 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  A  way  seemed  to 
open  up  for  her,  and  she  went  on  and  on 
until  at  last  she  thought  she  could  go  no 
farther,  for  her  stockings  were  torn  to 
threads,  and  her  feet  were  bleeding;  she 
226 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

had  n't  eaten  anything  for  hours,  and  it  was 
long  past  her  bedtime.  Suddenly  she  saw, 
a  little  to  one  side,  a  double  green  light. 
Towards  this  she  went,  being  now  quite  fear- 
less, and  imagining  that  it  was  for  her  guid- 
ance. When  she  came  to  it  she  found  that 
the  double  green  light  was  in  the  top  of  a 
pollard  oak-tree ;  but  what  it  was  doing 
there,  and  what  help  it  could  be  to  her,  she 
could  not  conceive,  because  there  was  no 
way  past  the  oak-tree.  Then,  to  her  horror, 
when  she  tried  to  retrace  her  steps  she  was 
unable  to  find  the  path  she  had  left,  or  any 
path.  About  her  on  every  side  the  black- 
thorn rose  like  a  wall,  and  behind  it  the 
trees  clustered  like  a  palisade. 

'  I  've  lost  my  way  ! '  she  cried,  sinking 
on  her  knees,  and  forgetting  altogether  that 
this  was  a  thing  she  had  hoped  to  do,  like 
little  girls  she  had  read  of. 

'  Where  do  you  want  to  go  to  ?  '  asked  a 
harsh  voice  from  the  top  of  the  pollard-oak, 
while  the  double  green  light  rose  up  in  the 
air  and  then  dropped  to  the  ground. 

The  green  lights  were  the  eyes  of  a  large 
dog-fox  that  had  been  resting,  as  is  the 
227 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

manner  of  foxes,  in  the  top  of  the  pollard- 
tree.  Now,  this  fox  was  not  a  true  fox,  but 
the  wicked  enchanter  Declarabol,  who  was 
in  the  habit  of  taking  the  forms  of  beasts, 
and  birds,  and  reptiles  in  order  to  pry  into 
and  thwart,  if  possible,  the  good  purposes  of 
the  enchantress  Irkanda,  whom  he  hated. 

*  I  am  seeking  the  enchantress  Irkanda,' 
said  Harolda. 

'  I  can  take  you  to  her,'  said  the  fox  —  or, 
rather,  Declarabol  —  as  softly  as  he  could, 
wagging  his  tail  with  unfeigned  delight. 

As  a  rule,  he  found  it  difficult  to  overcome 
the  suspicions  of  those  he  wished  to  betray ; 
but  Harolda  was  so  enraptured  at  finding 
herself  in  the  true  forest,  where  the  fairies 
dwell  and  the  beasts  can  speak,  that  she 
never  thought  of  doubting  the  fox's  good 
faith. 

'  What  have  you  in  your  little  bag?  '  asked 
Declarabol. 

'  Oh,  my  tears,'  answered  Harolda  quite 
truthfully,  but  not  wishing  to  tell  the  fox 
everything. 

'  Humph  ! '  rejoined  Declarabol,  not  by 
any  means  satisfied  with  Harolda's  reply, 
228 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

but  afraid  to  say  more  lest  he  should  arouse 
her  suspicions. 

Then  Declarabol,  who  had  by  enchant- 
ment closed  up  the  path,  opened  it  again, 
and  led  Harolda  through  the  thicket  to  the 
way  which  the  good  fairy  had  told  her  to 
follow.  This  wicked  magician  was  very  sly 
and  wary.  Harolda  was  no  concern  of  his ; 
it  was  Irkanda  whom  he  wished  to  damage ; 
so  he  judged  it  best  for  his  plans  to  bring 
the  little  girl  safely  to  the  great  enchantress, 
in  the  hope  of  finding  out  what  new  scheme 
for  the  good  of  Fairyland  Irkanda  had  on 
hand. 

*  This,'  said  Declarabol,  stopping  suddenly, 
and  pointing  with  his  nose  to  a  knoll  on 
which  a  hawthorn  grew,  'is  the  house  of 
Irkanda.  You  must  knock  at  the  door.' 

The  door,  which  was  of  bronze,  richly 
decorated  in  low  relief,  stood  in  the  side  of 
the  knoll,  and  when  Harolda  knocked,  it 
swung  open  with  a  musical  sound.  The  fox 
trotted  in  at  once,  and  she  followed,  where- 
upon the  door  swung  to  again  with  a  musical 
sound. 

Harolda  found  herself  in  a  large  low  room 
229 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

with  a  groined  ceiling,  like  the  crypt  of  a 
church.  A  single  silver  lamp  hung  by  silver 
chains  from  the  centre  of  the  roof;  in  it 
burned  a  sweet-smelling  oil,  and  the  light 
had  a  rosy  hue.  There  was  tapestry  on  the 
walls,  strange  implements  were  strewed  about 
the  floor,  and  at  the  back  of  the  room 
Irkanda  sat  on  a  couch  of  tigers'  skins,  spin- 
ning a  golden  thread  in  the  old-fashioned 
manner  without  a  wheel ;  and  she  sang  this 
song  as  she  spun  : 

'The  world  spins  round,  and  the  moon, 

And  the  sun  spins  round  itself, 
And  this  is  my  distaff  tune, 
As  I  twirl  the  shining  pelf. 

'The  spider  spins  in  the  furze, 

And  the  dew  begems  his  net ; 
Fate's  unseen  spindle  whirrs, 
And  the  thread  with  blood  is  wet. 

'  But  tears  nor  blood  shall  stain, 

Nor  rust  of  death  or  sin, 
The  thread  of  golden  grain 
I  spin,  I  spin.' 

The  deep  low  singing  of  the  great  en- 
chantress  overpowered    Harolda,    and    she 
stood  like  a  statue.     Declarabol  trembled  as 
230 


The   Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

he  always  did  in  the  presence  of  Irkanda, 
for  she  was  stronger  than  he,  and  was  his 
mistress  in  all  the  arts  of  sorcery  and  witch- 
craft, although  she  used  them  only  for  blame- 
less ends.  But  while  Declarabol  trembled, 
he  was  no  coward.  It  is  possible  to  be  sick 
with  terror,  and  yet  to  go  on  unflinchingly 
braving  the  cause  of  the  terror ;  and  this  is 
possible  to  the  worst  as  to  the  best. 

Irkanda  sang  her  song  several  times  before 
she  laid  her  distaff  by.  She  ceased  singing 
and  spinning  at  the  same  time,  and  then, 
without  looking  at  Harolda,  she  said  : 

'  Give  me  one  of  your  diamonds.' 

'  Diamonds  ! '  thought  Declarabol,  as  he 
watched  Harolda  open  her  satchel  and  give 
one  of  her  transformed  tears  to  the  enchan- 
tress ;  '  the  girl  is  not  such  a  simpleton,  after 
all.' 

As  soon  as  she  had  it,  Irkanda  struck  a 
bell  that  lay  on  the  couch  beside  her,  and  a 
little  gnome  appeared  dressed  in  russet  with 
a  red  nightcap  on  his  head. 

'  Bring  Harolda,'  said  Irkanda,  '  the  Un- 
tiring Shoes.' 

The  gnome  vanished,  and  reappeared 
231 


The  Interregnum  in   Fairyland 

again  almost  instantaneously  with  three  com- 
panions, carrying  among  them  a  pair  of 
shoes,  each  of  which  was  as  big  as  Harolda's 
whole  body. 

'  They  were  last  worn  by  a  giant,'  said 
Irkanda.  '  Step  into  them,  Harolda.' 

Harolda  hesitated  a  second,  but  remem- 
bering how  the  fairy  had  told  her  to  obey 
Irkanda  promptly,  she  put  her  feet  into  the 
enormous  shoes,  which  immediately  shrank 
to  the  exact  size  of  her  feet ;  at  the  same 
time  all  her  sense  of  weariness  left  her,  and 
she  felt  as  if  she  could  fly. 

'  Give  me  the  other  diamond,'  said  Irkanda. 
'  Bring  a  vial  of  the  Aroma  of  Life,'  she 
continued,  when  Harolda  had  given  her  the 
second  diamond. 

In  a  moment  one  of  the  gnomes  had 
brought  a  small  green  vial,  which  he  handed 
to  Harolda. 

'  Bring  me  Harolda's  pearls,'  said  Irkanda. 

One  of  the  gnomes  took  off  his  nightcap, 
and  when  Harolda  had  emptied  the  pearls 
into  it,  he  carried  them  to  the  enchantress, 
who  received  them  in  a  satchel  of  her  own, 
larger,  but  of  the  same  make  as  Harolda's. 
232 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

'  Now,'  continued  Irkanda,  '  in  these  Un- 
tiring Shoes  you  could  easily  walk  round 
the  world  without  a  halt.  When  you  are 
sleepy  or  thirsty,  or  your  spirits  are  low, 
smell  the  Aroma  of  Life,  or  put  a  drop  of  it 
on  your  tongue,  and  you  will  be  immedi- 
ately refreshed.' 

Harolda,  who  was  very  dizzy  and  thirsty, 
took  out  the  stopper  of  the  vial,  and  smelt 
the  aroma,  and  tasted  it  also;  the  scent 
made  her  feel  as  if  she  had  just  come  out  of 
the  sea,  and  been  rubbed  down  with  a  flesh- 
brush,  and  the  taste  sent  an  exquisite  thrill 
along  all  her  nerves,  and  seemed  to  expand 
her  whole  body  and  mind.  Irkanda  smiled 
indulgently  as  Harolda  was  testing  the  effects 
of  the  contents  of  the  vial,  and  then  said  : 

'  When  you  are  hungry,  put  your  hand  in 
your  satchel,  and  you  will  find  food.' 

Harolda,  who  was  quite  famished  for  want 
of  something  to  eat,  thrust  her  hand  into  her 
satchel,  and  brought  out  a  little  cake  of  a 
glistening  white  colour  streaked  with  crim- 
son. It  was  hardly  bigger  than  a  crown 
piece,  which  disappointed  her  very  much, 
as  she  had  never  been  so  hungry  in  her  life 
233 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

before.  Then  she  thought  that  perhaps  the 
satchel  might  be  full  of  food ;  so  she  put  her 
hand  in  again,  but  brought  it  forth  empty. 
With  a  sigh  she  began  to  nibble  the  edge  of 
the  cake,  and,  behold,  she  had  never  tasted 
anything  like  it  before  !  It  seemed  to  savour 
of  everything  she  liked  best.  In  three  sec- 
onds she  finished  it,  and,  to  her  astonish- 
ment, her  hunger  was  quite  satisfied;  and 
yet,  although  she  felt  that  the  ripest  peach 
would  hardly  tempt  her  to  eat  again  at  that 
time,  she  had  none  of  the  miserable  sensa- 
tions she  had  sometimes  experienced  on 
Christmas  Day  after  dinner. 

'  Fox,  fox,  fox,'  said  Irkanda, '  are  you  a 
good  fox  and  true  ? ' 

'  The  truest  fox  in  the  forest,  O  Irkanda,' 
replied  Declarabol. 

It  was  the  case  that  Irkanda,  on  account 
of  her  greatness  of  soul,  was  as  easily  de- 
ceived as  a  child :  that  was  the  sole  advan- 
tage Declarabol  had  over  her.  Nevertheless 
Irkanda  was  the  most  wonderful  enchantress 
that  ever  lived. 

'Swear  by  the  crab-apple,  the  hawthorn, 
and  the  mistletoe,  to  lead  Harolda  safe  into 
234 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

Fairyland,  with  all  the  beasts  to  guard  her/ 
said  Irkanda  in  a  terrible  voice. 

*  I  swear,'  replied  Declarabol  huskily,  while 
he  shook  like  a  leaf. 

The  door  then  swung  open  of  itself  with  a 
musical  sound,  and  Harolda  and  Declarabol 
returned  once  more  to  the  forest  and  the 
night ;  and  just  as  the  door  closed  behind 
them  they  heard  Irkanda  resume  her  distaff 
and  her  song : 

'  The  spider  spins  in  the  furze, 

And  the  dew  begems  his  net ; 
Fate's  unseen  spindle  whirrs, 
And  the  thread  with  tears  is  wet.' 

Declarabol  trotted  through  the  forest  at 
a  great  rate,  and  Harolda  in  her  Untiring 
Shoes  easily  kept  pace  with  him.  In  a  deep 
hollow  Declarabol  halted,  and  told  Harolda 
to  wait  for  him  while  he  went  to  summon 
the  beasts  to  guard  her  into  Fairyland. 

Now,  Declarabol  had  no  intention  of  ful- 
filling his  oath.  Once  out  of  sight  of 
Harolda,  he  rubbed  himself  against  a  moun- 
tain-ash, and  straightway  appeared  in  his 
own  proper  person,  which  was  that  of  a 
235 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

black  man  with  wings  like  a  bat  and  horns 
like  a  goat.  Mounting  into  the  air,  he  flew 
to  the  north  end  of  the  forest  and  alit  at  the 
door  of  a  hut,  in  which,  although  it  was  now 
after  midnight,  a  light  still  burned.  He 
folded  his  wings  and  entered  without 
knocking. 

'  Declarabol ! '  said  Rabbitskin,  the  inhabi- 
tant of  the  hut,  as  soon  as  he  heard  the 
latch  lifted ;  '  I  know  by  the  itching  of  my 
ears.' 

Rabbitskin  was  a  foolish,  ill-instructed 
enchanter  whom  Declarabol  often  employed. 
Like  most  foolish  people,  he  was  very  vain, 
and  was  constantly  imposing  on  himself. 
Nobody  ever  visited  him  after  midnight, 
except  Declarabol ;  and  as  Declarabol  had 
always  something  to  tell  him  when  he  came, 
and,  as  a  rule,  an  advantageous  proposal  to 
make,  the  itching  of  his  ears  can  be  under- 
stood quite  well. 

With  great  gravity  and  self-importance  he 
said  to  Declarabol,  'By  my  art  I  knew  it 
was  you.' 

'  Ha  ! '  said  Declarabol,  who  always  flat- 
tered Rabbitskin  when  he  had  need  of  his 
236 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

services,  '  there 's  no  deceiving  you,  Rabbit- 
skin.  If  you  only  had  a  fair  chance,  old 
fellow,  I  believe  you  would  outstrip  us  all.' 

Rabbitskin  chuckled,  and  dished  the  stew 
which  was  simmering  on  the  fire  into  two 
porringers ;  and  two  spoons  were  soon  as 
busy  as  two  hungry  enchanters  could  ply 
them. 

'And  now  to  business,'  said  Declarabol, 
when  he  had  finished  his  portion.  'Irkanda 
has  some  grand  scheme  afoot.' 

'  About  the  lost  King  and  Queen  of  Fairy- 
land?' 

'  Perhaps.  A  little  girl  has  come  into  the 
forest,  and  Irkanda  has  given  her  the  Untir- 
ing Shoes  and  the  Aroma  of  Life,  and  caused 
a  cake  of  manna  to  be  in  her  satchel  when- 
ever she  is  hungry.  She  has  further  in- 
structed a  fox  to  gather  the  beasts  together 
to  guard  this  little  girl  into  Fairyland.  If 
Harolda  is  the  lost  Queen,  and  should  get 
back  to  her  kingdom,  it 's  all  up  with  us.' 

'How  so?'  asked  Rabbitskin. 

'  Because,'  answered  Declarabol, '  the  inter- 
regnum in  Fairyland  would  come  to  an  end, 
and  with  the  restoration  of  authority  we 
237 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

should  be  reduced  to  the  state  of  impotence 
in  which  we  were  eight  years  ago;  for  all 
the  forests  would  be  so  jealously  guarded 
and  the  air  so  filled  with  counter  spells  that 
we  should  be  unable  to  move  either  hand  or 
foot.' 

'  But,'  said  Rabbitskin,  '  if  the  Queen  is 
only  a  little  girl,  what  would  it  matter  ? ' 

'  Man  alive  ! '  exclaimed  Declarabol,  losing 
patience.  '  The  Queen  a  little  girl !  The 
Queen  was  enchanted  ! ' 

'  Ah  !  ah  ! '  rejoined  Rabbitskin  medita- 
tively. He  knew  nothing  about  history,  and 
never  read  the  Sorcerer's  Herald,  and  yet  was 
afraid  to  show  his  ignorance. 

*  I  see  you  understand  nothing  of  the 
matter,'  said  Declarabol.  '  You  must  know, 
then,  that  it  is  a  hundred  years  since  the 
chief  wicked  enchanters  and  evil  spirits  in 
the  world  conspired  together  to  put  the 
King  and  Queen  of  Faery  under  a  spell. 
In  spite  of  all  their  efforts,  it  was  only  eight 
years  ago  that  they  succeeded.  How  it  was 
done  I  don't  know ;  I  was  just  out  of  my 
apprenticeship  then,  and  the  secret  was  not 
confided  to  me  —  much  to  my  own  satis- 
238 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

faction  now,  for  every  enchanter  and  evil 
spirit  who  took  part  in  the  conspiracy  died 
within  a  year  in  lingering  agonies.  That  was 
Irkanda's  doing ;  she  was  then  just  coming 
to  the  front  as  an  enchantress.  Great  as 
she  is,  she  has  been  eight  years  trying  to  find 
out  the  nature  of  the  enchantment  of  the 
King  and  Queen  of  Faery,  and  I  don't  believe 
she  ever  will.  When  she  began  to  kill  off  the 
conspirators,  ever  so  many  of  them  offered 
to  tell  the  secret  if  she  would  spare  them ; 
but  in  her  pride  she  would  n't  hear  of  it, 
declaring  that  her  own  art  was  sufficient. 
Enchanted  the  King  and  Queen  of  Faery  are, 
thanks  to  the  glorious  dead ;  no  one  has 
heard  tell  of  them  since  the  day  of  their  dis- 
appearance ;  and  along  with  them  vanished 
The  Book  of  the  Laws  of  Fairyland.' 

'  Ay,  ay,'  said  Rabbitskin. 

'  Well,  then,  whether  this  little  girl  has 
anything  to  do  with  the  enchantment  of  the 
King  and  Queen  of  Faery  or  not,  I  can't  say ; 
but  that  Irkanda  favours  her  is  enough  for 
me.  Now  while  this  fox  is  away  gathering 
together  the  beasts,  the  little  girl  waits  in  a 
den  well  known  to  me.  I  want  to  turn  you 
239 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

into  a  fox,  and  to  carry  you  on  my  back  to 
the  little  girl  before  the  other  fox  brings  the 
beasts  together.  You  will  then  lead  her  to 
my  cave,  and  I  shall  take  care  of  her  after 
that.' 

'  And  what  will  you  give  me  ?  ' 

'  Give  you  ?  I  '11  give  you  the  power  of 
making  withered  oak-leaves  into  gold.' 

*  You  will ! '  cried  Rabbi  tskin,  astonished 
at  the  unusual  liberality  of  his  employer. 
'  Come  on  ! ' 

Declarabol  pronounced  a  spell  in  a  terrible 
language,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  Rabbit- 
skin  stood  on  four  legs,  a  dog-fox  of  the 
very  fur  in  which  Declarabol  himself  had 
lately  walked  the  forest.  Having  extin- 
guished the  lamp  and  the  fire,  Declarabol 
led  the  way  out;  and,  with  Rabbitskin  on 
his  -shoulders,  spread  his  wings  and  flew 
back  to  within  a  short  distance  of  the  den 
where  he  had  left  Harolda.  There  he  de- 
posited Rabbitskin,  gave  him  some  final  in- 
structions, and  took  flight  to  his  own  place. 

So  rapid  had  been  the  passage  of  De- 
clarabol to  and  from  the  hut  of  Rabbitskin, 
the  enchanters  had  despatched  their  supper 
240 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

so  expeditiously,  and  struck  up  their  bargain 
so  promptly,  that  Harolda  had  to  wait  barely 
twenty  minutes  for  the  return  of  the  fox. 

'  Oh,  dear  fox,'  she  said,  when  Rabbitskin 
appeared,  looking  from  the  tips  of  his  ears 
to  the  tip  of  his  tail  in  every  hue  and  hair 
exactly  as  Declarabol  had  looked  in  the  same 
disguise,  '  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back. 
But  where  are  the  beasts?' 

'  They  are  all  assembled  half  a  mile  from 
here  waiting  for  us,'  replied  Rabbitskin. 
'  Were  you  frightened  ?  ' 

'  No,'  rejoined  Harolda,  '  only  very,  very 
impatient.  I  have  taken  two  drops  of  the 
Aroma  of  Life,  and  eaten  another  cake,  and 
I  could  hardly  keep  my  legs  from  running 
away.  Oh  !  how  I  long  to  get  to  Fairyland, 
for  there  I  shall  see  my  dolly  again  turned 
into  a  baby  boy,  with  eyes  like  pansies  and 
a  laugh  like  a  little  brook  !  Come  away, 
dear  fox.' 

'  Ha  !  hum  ! '  muttered  Rabbitskin  to  him- 
self. '  A  fine  Fairyland  Declarabol  has  ready 
for  her,  I  bet  my  brush !  Serve  her  jolly 
well  right,  too,  interfering  minx  !  As  quick 
as  you  like,'  he  said  aloud ;  and  they  set  off 
16  24! 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

at  a  pace  which  only  the  fleetest  creatures 
can  maintain  for  any  time  at  all.  'Here 
we  are  ! '  he  cried  in  a  minute  or  two,  stop- 
ping at  a  knoll  like  that  in  which  Irkanda 
lived,  but  smaller.  '  You  must  knock  at  the 
door.' 

Harolda  knocked,  and  the  door,  which 
was  of  oak  studded  with  iron  nails,  opened 
at  once,  screeching  on  its  hinges.  She  was 
about  to  enter,  when  a  hideous  yell  arose 
immediately  behind  her.  Looking  round  in 
alarm,  she  saw  the  figures  of  three  animals 
rolling  on  the  turf.  What  they  were  doing 
she  could  not  make  out,  they  wriggled  so ; 
but  at  last  the  fox  rolled  over  dead,  and  two 
polecats,  who  had  bitten  through  his  neck 
on  either  side,  slunk  off  into  the  forest.  By 
this  time  Declarabol,  in  his  own  shape,  had 
come  out  of  his  knoll.  He  smiled  when  he 
saw  the  fox  lying  dead,  and  uttered  an  odd 
cry.  After  a  short  interval  an  answer  came 
from  some  distance,  and  soon  four  horned 
owls  flew  up  on  noiseless  wings.  They 
perched  on  a  low  branch  of  an  old  oak  that 
grew  near  DeclaraboFs  knoll,  and  said,  one 
after  the  other,  slowly,  gravely,  and  under 
242 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

their  breath,  as  it  were,  '  Towhit,  towhoo ! 
Towhit,  towhoo  !  Towhit,  towhoo  !  To- 
whit, towhoo  ! '  And  their  eight  orange 
coloured  eyes  sparkled  in  the  midst  of  the 
feathery  discs  on  either  side  of  their  black 
beaks  like  carbuncles  in  brooches  of  tar- 
nished gold. 

Declarabol  addressed  them  briefly  in  the 
beasts'  argot,  and  in  tones  of  command. 
Without  delay  they  came  down  from  the 
tree,  and  two  taking  the  fox  by  the  fore-legs 
and  two  by  the  hind-legs,  they  mounted 
into  the  air  and  flew  away  with  him. 

Then  Declarabol  uttered  a  spell  and  passed 
his  hand  twice  in  front  of  Harolda's  face ; 
and  when  she  tried  to  ask  him  what  it  all 
meant,  she  found  she  was  unable  to  speak ; 
nor  could  she  cause  any  sound  at  all  to  issue 
from  her  mouth.  Declarabol  dragged  her 
across  his  threshold,  and,  having  closed  and 
barred  the  door,  thrust  her  into  an  iron 
cage,  which  stood  ready  in  the  middle  of 
the  room. 

Keeping  back  her  tears  and  holding  her 
breath,  Harolda  watched  Declarabol.  The 
enchanter  went  to  a  cupboard,  from  which 
243 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

he  took  a  long  slim  bottle  and  a  green  glass 
with  a  crooked  stem.  Having  seated  him- 
self on  a  low  chair  under  the  bronze  lamp, 
which  hung  by  bronze  chains  from  the  ceil- 
ing, he  thrice  filled  the  glass  with  a  dancing 
yellow  liquor,  and  drank  it  off  to  the  dregs 
each  time,  chuckling  and  eyeing  Harolda 
with  glances  that  made  her  blood  run  cold. 

'  Well,'  he  said,  settling  himself  in  his 
chair,  '  whoever  you  are,  I  've  caught  you 
nicely.  Oh !  I  've  done  a  good  night's 
work,  for  the  fox  that  led  you  through  the 
forest  is  dead  —  killed  and  carried  off  by  my 
slaves,  and  laid  where  Irkanda's  folk  will  find 
him;  and  then  a  certain  enchanter,  who 
thought  no  end  of  himself,  and  knew  a  little 
more  of  my  secrets  than  I  cared  about,  has 
vanished  unaccountably,  and  without  learn- 
ing how  to  make  withered  oak-leaves  into 
gold,  either.  A  good  night's  work !  A 
very,  very  good  night's  work  !  And  now  I 
wonder  what  I  shall  do  with  you,  my  little 
dear.  Shall  I  keep  you  and  make  terms  for 
myself,  or  shall  I  kill  you  to  spite  Irkanda? 
That 's  what  this  shall  determine.  When  I 
have  dreamt  an  hour,'  he  went  on,  after 
244 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

drinking  another  glass  of  the  yellow  liquor, 
'  I  shall  know  what  I  must  do.' 

And  immediately  he  fell  asleep. 

Harolda  was  on  the  point  of  fainting  with 
terror,  when  she  remembered  her  vial.  She 
sniffed  it  and  took  a  drop  of  it,  and  recov- 
ered her  courage  at  once.  But  in  a  little 
while  the  dreadful  snoring  of  Declarabol  so 
worked  upon  her  excited  nerves  that  she  was 
glad  to  have  recourse  again  to  the  Aroma  of 
Life.  She  kept  tasting  it  and  putting  it  to 
her  nostrils,  for  the  effect  of  it  was  wonder- 
fully exhilarating,  making  her  feel  not  so 
much  as  if  she  did  n't  care,  but  as  if  she  had 
the  power  to  do  whatever  she  chose.  The 
extraordinary  sense  of  expansion,  both  of 
body  and  mind,  became  so  pleasant  with  the 
continuous  tasting  and  smelling  of  the  aroma, 
that  at  last,  beside  herself  with  delight,  she 
drank  off  half  the  vial.  Then  a  marvel  took 
place,  such  as  Harolda  had  never  heard  or 
read  of:  she  began  to  grow,  sensibly  and 
visibly;  all  her  limbs,  her  body,  her  neck, 
her  head,  shot  up  and  filled  out,  like  some 
flower  an  Eastern  enchanter  causes  to  spring 
and  blossom  in  a  minute.  She  had  no  grow- 
245 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

ing  pains,  but  it  seemed  as  if  her  nerves  and 
muscles  twanged  and  hummed  as  they  ex- 
tended with  her  body,  while  the  blood  sang 
in  all  her  veins.  In  a  few  minutes  her  head 
struck  the  roof  of  the  cage.  Faint  and  afraid, 
she  bent  herself  at  first,  but  after  drinking 
the  rest  of  the  vial  she  stood  erect  again, 
happy  and  confident.  Sure  enough,  her  head 
burst  through  the  iron  bars  of  the  cage; 
and,  in  a  little  while,  as  a  butterfly  breaks  its 
chrysalis,  she  stepped  out  of  it  altogether 
—  a  wonderful  creature,  taller  than  women 
are,  more  exquisitely  shaped,  and  much 
more  beautiful  to  behold.  Her  dress  also 
had  changed,  and  she  now  wore  purple  robes 
of  the  finest  texture,  embroidered  with  gold  ; 
she  had  on  golden  sandals,  and  her  belt  and 
satchel  had  grown  with  her  growth.  Her 
wonder  at  her  transformation  was  still  only 
dawning,  when  Declarabol,  disturbed  by  the 
breaking  of  the  cage,  wakened,  rubbed  his 
eyes,  and  stared  about  him. 

« Sarapapapapai ! '  he  shrieked,  starting  up, 
when  he  saw  the  cage  in  ruins. 

But  when  he  beheld  Harolda  standing  ma- 
jestic, beautiful,  and  fearless  in  the  midst  of 
246 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

the  cave,  he  threw  up  his  hands  and  fell  to 
the  floor  a  gibbering  idiot.  Harolda  looked 
at  him  in  disgust  for  a  second  or  two ;  then 
she  unbarred  the  door  and  went  out  into  the 
forest.  She  wanted  to  shout,  she  wanted  to 
laugh,  she  wanted  to  sing  ;  but  the  spell  was 
on  her,  and  she  could  utter  no  sound  of  any 
kind.  As  she  walked  about  among  the  trees, 
the  rapture  of  her  whole  being  found  expres- 
sion in  eloquent  movements  of  her  arms,  and 
golden  glances  rained  from  her  eyes  on  every 
hand.  A  brown  owl,  flying  overhead,  noticed 
her  gracious  movements  and  the  stateliness 
of  her  carriage,  and,  being  an  inquisitive  owl, 
he  perched  on  a  tree  to  see  her  pass.  No 
sooner  did  he  catch  sight  of  Harolda's  face 
than  he  rose  into  the  air  with  a  wild  scream 
of  delight  and  flew  off.  Harolda  wondered 
a  little,  but  went  on  her  way  ravished  with 
the  depths  of  darkness  and  mysterious  noises 
of  the  forest,  and  with  the  beauty  of  the  night. 
When  she  came  to  a  wide  glade  that  sloped 
up  before  her  like  an  amphitheatre,  she  felt 
constrained  to  stand  still  and  wait  for  a  little. 
*  Something  else  is  about  to  happen,'  she 
said  to  herself. 

247 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

She  had  paused  only  for  a  few  seconds, 
when  a  new  murmur  and  rustle  began  afar 
off  and  near  at  hand :  the  whole  forest  had 
become  suddenly  alive.  Soon  in  every  glade 
and  by-way  resounded  the  patter  and  drum- 
ming of  feet  and  hoofs,  and  the  swish  and 
whirr  of  wings  sped  over  the  tree-tops  like  a 
rainy  shower.  Hoof  and  paw,  on  they  came 
like  rivulets  running  to  the  sea ;  and  above 
the  darkening  feathers  gathered  like  clouds. 
The  first  to  reach  the  amphitheatre  were  the 
fallow  deer.  Their  shining  eyes  and  dun 
coats  soon  filled  up  a  space  about  Harolda ; 
and  after  a  little  jostling  and  scraping,  they 
all  lay  down  as  close  together  as  they  could, 
every  swart  flank  heaving  like  a  wave  of  the 
sea.  Then  came  the  little  ruddy  roe-deer, 
shyest  of  creatures,  in  ones  and  twos  and 
threes ;  actually  bashful  in  the  presence  of 
each  other,  they  crouched  dispersedly  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  amphitheatre.  The  foxes 
slunk  in  next,  and  sat  about  on  their 
haunch  2S,  with  their  heads  innocently 
dropped  on  one  side.  Hares  and  rabbits 
crowded  together;  and  polecats,  water-rats, 
and  otters  arrived  in  a  batch;  the  stoat,  the 
248 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

weasel,  and  the  marten  wriggled  through  the 
crowd  to  the  very  front :  the  badger  and 
the  hedgehog  elbowed  a  way  in ;  the  dormice 
and  the  fieldmice,  and  the  shrews  ran  hither 
and  thither ;  and  the  scaly,  yellow-stained 
snake,  the  brown  viper,  and  the  burnish  slow- 
worm  crawled  to  Harolda's  feet.  While  the 
area  of  the  amphitheatre  filled  up  in  this  way, 
the  clouds  of  birds  took  their  places  in  the 
galleries,  as  the  surrounding  trees  may  be 
called :  falcons,  owls,  ravens,  shrikes,  rooks, 
jackdaws,  crows,  magpies,  jays,  starlings,  ous- 
els, thrushes,  blackbirds,  sparrows,  finches, 
nuthatches,  woodpeckers,  linnets,  larks,  wrens, 
titmice,  swallows,  doves,  plovers,  snipes,  cur- 
lews, in  the  tree-tops  and  on  the  high  branches 
and  on  the  low  branches,  head  to  tail,  wing 
to  wing,  a  shining  galaxy  of  eyes  in  a  firma- 
ment of  feathers.  And  the  squirrels  were 
among  the  birds,  and  the  partridges  and  the 
pheasants  among  the  beasts. 

When  every  creature  had  found  a  place 
and  perfect  silence  reigned,  Harolda,  know- 
ing intuitively  that  the  assembly  had  come 
together  to  see  her,  and  feeling,  without 
knowing  why,  that  it  was  her  duty  to  make 
249 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

a  speech,  opened  her  mouth,  and  was  about 
to  try  to  begin,  '  Dear  beasts  and  birds.' 
Remembering,  however,  that  she  had  lost 
the  power  of  utterance,  she  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears.  A  deep 
murmur  of  sympathy  broke  from  the  ground 
and  the  trees,  which  Harolda  mistook  for  an 
impatient  grumble.  She  therefore  raised  her 
face,  and,  by  gestures,  tried  to  indicate  that 
she  was  dumb.  At  first  her  audience  were 
puzzled ;  but  when  they  understood,  a  cry 
of  rage  broke  out  which  it  is  impossible  to 
imagine  or  describe.  Then  all  the  beasts  and 
birds  talked  at  once,  discussing  the  position 
in  the  most  excited  manner.  But  while  the 
babel  of  tongues  was  at  its  highest  an  ant- 
lered  form  appeared  beside  Harolda.  The 
assembly,  beholding  it,  burst  into  a  shout 
of  joy,  which  was  followed  by  an  attentive 
silence.  Now,  this  antlered  form  was  the 
doyen  of  Epping  Forest,  the  only  red-deer 
surviving  there.  He  was  over  a  hundred 
years  old,  and  his  existence  was  denied  by 
all  the  keepers,  and  doubted  even  by  some  of 
the  beasts.  But  there  he  was,  a  late  arrival 
come  from  the  most  secluded  part  of  his 
250 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

'  native  dwelling-place  '  to  advise  his  brethren 
in  their  need.  In  his  stormy  old  voice,  that 
seemed  to  throb  with  the  tempests  of  a  cen- 
tury, he  said,  '  We  are  too  many  to  consult 
together.  Send  me  a  snake,  a  raven,  and  a 
badger,  and  we  shall  determine  what  is  to 
be  done.' 

With  but  little  delay  the  delegates  were 
selected,  and  the  four  creatures  retired  behind 
a  thicket  to  take  counsel  with  one  another. 
They  were  gone  only  a  few  minutes,  and  on 
their  return  the  stag  announced  their  decision. 

'We  shall  all  rise  up  together  and  take 
her  to  Fairyland,'  he  said ;  and  the  decision 
was  received  with  acclaim. 

The  stag  knelt  down,  and  Harolda,  under- 
standing, got  upon  his  back.  Then  the  raven 
fastened  round  his  antlers  a  strong  withe 
which  served  as  a  bridle  ;  and  the  brown  owl 
who  had  announced  Harolda's  arrival  was 
honoured  with  a  perch  on  the  stag's  head. 
The  birds  were  the  first  to  set  out;  they 
rose  like  a  dense  exhalation  from  the  trees, 
and  flew  off  in  a  wide  straggling  cloud  with 
shrill  cries  and  clangour.  The  sound  of 
their  flight  was  still  loud  above  the  forest 
251 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

when  the  stag  took  the  road.  He  walked 
right  through  the  amphitheatre,  the  animals 
opening  a  lane  for  him,  and  then  forming 
up  behind  in  a  mixed  but  orderly  proces- 
sion. As  for  Harolda,  it  mattered  little  that 
she  was  unable  to  speak,  because  her  wonder 
and  delight  were  beyond  words.  Yet  she 
felt  every  moment  as  if  she  were  about  to 
utter  something,  and  as  if  momentous  things 
that  she  had  long  forgotten  were  about  to 
waken  up.  in  her  mind. 

They  had  scarcely  gone  half  a  mile  —  it 
seemed  so,  at  least,  to  Harolda  —  when  a 
great  gray  cup,  held  out  in  the  east,  was 
filled  with  the  crimson  wine  of  dawn ;  and 
from  the  east,  too,  was  seen  coming  towards 
them  more  swiftly  than  the  wind  a  black 
cloud.  Soon  they  saw  that  the  cloud  was  the 
return  of  the  birds.  Having  announced  in 
Fairyland  Harolda's  progress,  they  had  put 
about  again ;  and  when  the  birds  and  beasts 
met,  the  former,  separating  into  two  divisions, 
hung  on  the  flanks  of  the  march  for  the  rest 
of  the  way. 

And  as  they  went  along  there  came  to 
their  ears  in  snatches  an  enchanting  sound 
252 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

of  music.  This,  the  birds  told  the  beasts, 
was  fairy  music ;  for,  they  said,  '  the  whole 
fairy  nation  is  coming  to  meet  us  with  drums 
and  trumpets,  cymbals  and  triangles,  and 
ancient  psalteries  and  dulcimers,  the  strings 
of  which  are  moonbeams  and  sunbeams.' 
The  procession  increased  its  pace  at  this 
great  news,  and  shortly  the  borderland  of 
Faery  came  in  sight.  Harolda  had  hardly 
done  feasting  her  eyes  on  the  rich  green 
meadows  and  bowers  that  lay  before  her, 
when  the  fairy  outriders  appeared  over  the 
crest  of  a  low  hill,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
sun  rose  up  at  once  into  the  sky.  After  the 
outriders  came  the  minstrels  in  a  chariot  of 
pearl,  decorated  with  ocean  gems  that  are 
unknown  outside  of  Fairyland.  Then  fol- 
lowed the  whole  body  of  the  fairy  cavalry, 
clad  in  gold  and  silver  mail,  and  riding  on 
horses  that  were  either  wholly  black  or  wholly 
white.  A  great  chariot  of  ivory,  decorated 
with  gold  and  all  kinds  of  precious  stones, 
came  next ;  it  was  drawn  by  six  white  horses, 
and  in  it  there  sat  three  persons.  Behind 
marched  the  infantry,  with  bows  and  arrows, 
swords  and  bucklers,  in  flashing  helmets  and 
253 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

glittering  harness ;  and  behind  them,  again, 
in  crowds  and  companies,  on  foot  and  on 
horseback,  flocked  the  fairy  nation.  The 
separate  splendours  of  the  divisions  of  the 
army,  of  the  chariots,  and  of  the  gaily  attired 
companies,  all  blended  into  a  rich,  soft 
beauty  of  colour  and  form  that  entranced  the 
eyes  of  every  bird  and  beast. 

The  earthly  creatures  came  to  a  halt  on 
the  edge  of  the  world,  for  although  they  are 
subject  to  Fairyland,  and  although  the  birds 
may  fly  into  the  air  of  Faery,  nothing  earthly 
may  set  foot  on  its  soil ;  while  on  their  side 
the  fairies  halted  just  on  the  border  of  their 
territory.  Straightway  a  figure  stepped  from 
the  ivory  chariot,  and  came  towards  the 
beasts.  This  was  the  fairy,  as  Harolda 
quickly  perceived,  who  had  met  her  first  in 
the  forest  in  the  guise  of  a  woman  weeping. 
She  came  up  to  Harolda  accompanied  by  a 
body-guard  of  archers,  and  helped  her  to 
descend  from  the  back  of  the  stag.  Then 
she  led  her  to  the  ivory  chariot,  while  the 
whole  fairy  nation  shouted  with  joy  again 
and  again,  and  the  minstrels  played  a  trium- 
phal march  that  thrilled  the  listeners  with 
254 


The   Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

delight  to  the  marrow  of  their  bones.  In 
the  chariot  sat  Irkanda,  and  the  most  beauti- 
ful youth  any  bird  or  beast,  or  body  or  fairy, 
ever  beheld. 

The  beautiful  youth  assisted  Harolda  into 
the  chariot,  and  made  her  sit  down  beside 
him. 

Then  Irkanda  arose,  and,  resting  on  her 
distaff,  spoke  in  a  clear  voice  that  was  dis- 
tinctly heard  by  every  creature  on  both  sides 
of  the  borderland.  She  reminded  her  double 
audience  how  their  King  and  Queen  had 
been  enchanted  and  spirited  away  eight  years 
before ;  she  told  them  also,  what  they  had 
long  guessed,  how  she,  Irkanda,  by  her  spells, 
had  caused  all  the  conspirators  to  perish 
miserably,  and  had  then  applied  herself  to 
the  discovery  of  the  condition  of  their  King 
and  Queen. 

'I  will  not  now  divulge,'  she  said,  'nor 
shall  I  ever  divulge  to  any  one,  the  marvel- 
lously ingenious  and  all  but  inextricably 
involved  enchantment,  or,  rather,  series  of  en- 
chantments, by  which  those  wicked  sorcerers 
and  evil  spirits  worked  their  infamous  will. 
Were  I  to  reveal  the  secret,  it  would  endanger 
255 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

the  State.  Happily,  those  subtle  devices, 
the  perfecting  of  which  occupied  for  ninety- 
two  years  hundreds  of  the  most  unscrupulous 
and  most  powerful  minds,  are  never  likely 
to  be  reinvented.  This  only  I  can  tell  you  : 
Your  King  and  Queen,  my  most  gracious 
master  and  mistress,  were  to  be  changed 
into  cheap  wooden  dolls,  in  which  shape, 
after  having  amused  some  thoughtless  chil- 
dren for  a  year  or  two,  they  would  have 
been  inevitably  burnt  up  in  a  patent  stove. 
The  enchantment  succeeded  perfectly  with 
the  King,  but  with  the  Queen  it  failed ;  by 
some  extraordinary  and  beneficent  mistake, 
she  was  changed  into  a  baby  instead  of  into 
a  doll.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  happy  error, 
I  question  if  I  should  have  succeeded  in  dis- 
enchanting them.  Fortunately,  it  required 
only  a  very  simple  spell  to  bring  the  royal 
pair  together  —  the  King  as  the  doll  of  the 
Queen.  The  difficulty  lay  here  :  Such  was 
the  diabolical  ingenuity  of  the  dead  con- 
spirators, that  a  restoration  could  not  be 
effected  by  force.  However,  my  sister,  the 
fairy  Urgala,  in  the  guise  of  an  old  woman, 
filled  the  mind  of  your  enchanted  Queen  with 
256 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

such  an  overpowering  desire  to  see  Fairyland 
that  she  set  out  to  reach  it  of  her  own  accord, 
bringing  the  King,  her  dearly-loved  doll,  with 
her.  I  should  have  told  you  that  the  con- 
spirators completed,  as  they  thought,  their 
nefarious  designs,  by  enchanting- The  Book  of 
the  Laws  of  Faery  into  a  toy  picture-book. 
That  also  I  brought  into  the  possession  of 
our  Queen,  and  she,  most  adorable  of  en- 
chanted princesses  —  now  happily  disen- 
chanted —  carried  it  with  her  when  she  set 
out  unwittingly  to  find  her  kingdom ;  and  it 
is  now  once  more  safe  in  the  muniment-room 
of  the  royal  palace.  We  were  sadly  tempted 
in  the  forest,  my  sister  and  I,  to  seize  upon 
the  royal  pair  and  carry  them  straight  to 
you,  for  we  knew  of  the  dangers  that  beset 
their  majesties,  but  we  dared  not  because  of 
the  enchantment.  The  great  soul  of  our 
Queen  helped  us  through  all ;  she  did  what- 
ever we  bade  her,  whatever  we  asked,  fear- 
lessly and  trustfully,  and  it  is  to  her,  to  her 
alone,  that  this  great  and  happy  restoration 
is  due ;  and  after  her  to  the  Aroma  of  Life, 
which  quickly  gave  again  to  the  royal  pair 
their  own  beautiful  and  majestic  forms.' 
17  257 


The  Interregnum  in   Fairyland 

With  that  Irkanda  placed  crowns  of  gold 
on  the  heads  of  the  King  and  Queen  j  and 
the  beautiful,  awe-struck,  but  radiant  pair 
stood  up  and  bowed  graciously  to  their  fairy 
and  to  their  earthly  subjects,  who  hailed 
them  with  frantic  shouts  of '  Long  live  the 
King  and  Queen  !  Long  live  the  King  and 
Queen  ! ' 

And  the  King  spoke  loving  words  to  his 
consort;  but  she,  trying  in  vain  to  reply, 
burst  into  tears.  Whereupon  the  King  kissed 
her  tenderly  and  pressed  her  to  his  bosom, 
and  at  once  Declarabol's  spell  was  broken, 
and  she  murmured,  between  two  joyful  sobs  : 

'  My  husband  ! ' 

The  procession  started  immediately  to 
return  to  the  capital  of  Fairyland,  with  tri- 
umphal music  and  triumphal  shouts.  But 
Irkanda  crossed  over  the  borderland  to  the 
beasts,  although  the  Queen  begged  her  to 
stay. 

'  My  sister  Urgala  goes  with  you,'  said 
Irkanda,  'and  she  can  communicate  with 
me,  if  danger  threatens,  in  the  thousandth 
part  of  a  second.' 

So  the  Queen  kissed  Irkanda  on  both 
258 


The  Interregnum  in  Fairyland 

cheeks ;  and  she  also  kissed  both  her  hands 
to  the  beasts  and  the  birds  as  her  chariot 
moved  away.  And  all  the  creatures  stood 
silently  watching  the  fairies  until  they  passed 
out  of  sight  over  the  crest  of  the  low  hill. 
Then,  with  the  great  enchantress  and  the 
old  stag  at  their  head,  they  went  back  to 
Epping  Forest,  and  all  the  way  Irkanda  spun 
her  golden  thread  and  sang  her  magic  song : 

'  The  world  spins  round,  and  the  moon ; 

And  the  sun  spins  round  itself ; 
And  this  is  my  distaff  tune, 
As  I  twirl  the  shining  pelf. 

'  The  spider  spins  in  the  furze, 

And  the  dew  begems  his  net ; 
Fate's  unseen  spindle  whirrs, 

And  the  thread  with  blood  is  wet. 

'  But  tears  nor  blood  shall  stain, 

Nor  rust  of  death  or  sin, 
The  thread  of  golden  grain 
I  spin,  I  spin.' 


THE   END. 


259 


PRINTED    BY  JOHN   WILSON   AND   SON   AT 

THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS    IN    CAMBRIDGE 

DURING       JUNE        M   DCCC   XCVI.         FOR 

STONE   AND   KIMBALL 

NEW   YORK 


Date  Due 


PRINTED    IN    U.S./ 


CAT.   NO.   24    161 


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rciim  sances 

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fohn  Davidson 


